Have a Nice Day!
by Speechwriter
Summary: Tom Riddle: secret, brilliant heir to the biggest company in the world, VoldeMart. Hermione Granger: sent to his prestigious school on full scholarship because VoldeMart outsourced her parents' jobs to China. Bridges burn. Sparks fly. M for language.
1. VoldeMart

**Hey you guys. So. This is my new story, and I've gotta admit, I've worked really hard on the foundation of this one. Yes, it's AU, but don't let that put you off, please. It'll be an unfamiliar ride with many familiar landmarks along the way.**

**Also, I've worked this entire premise around a few fundamental metaphors. I hope you'll figure most of them out for yourself, but there's one I sort of dive into that might put you off if you don't know what it is – purebloodedness, in this fic, translates to one's wealth status. Thus, the Weasleys aren't poor, but that shouldn't really be an issue seeing as the Weasleys aren't central characters. I mean, come on, this is Hermy/Tom. No place for Ron to get in the way here!**

**Just kidding. Sort of.**

**And yes... there are a couple jibes at the usual time-travel fics in the first few bits. I really, **_**really**_** couldn't resist.**

**Enough with my initial author's note!  
Speechwriter**

* * *

Hermione Granger's foot collided with the suitcase with an angry clunk. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath, and tossed herself on her bed, staring up at the peeling ceiling. Damn it all. Damn this new boarding school, damn having to abandon all her best friends to live in the countryside, damn having to live with a bunch of rich, pretentious pricks, and most of all, damn VoldeMart, for having outsourced her parents' already-inadequate jobs to China.

Hermione attempted to control her anger, but that rarely worked, and the pain in her foot hardly provided any relief.

Her mother would move to Liverpool to finish her training in law school. Her father would move up to Wales to get his previous employment back, a low-paying assistant job in a dentistry partnership. Hermione fumed at the thought. Like the dentists were even any good in Great Britain.

Sure, things hadn't been great in London, but her mum and dad living together had helped ease some of the financial trouble, and the jobs they'd had at the factory which supplied VoldeMart had paid just enough for a decent living, even one with a couple of comforts. But no. Damned outsourcing.

Hermione buried her face in her pillow and yelled. This was so unfair. She couldn't even convince her parents to let her live with Ron, whose family was still wealthy, even though they had so many kids to put through university. In fact, the Weasleys were one of the best-off families in her school. The Potters weren't far behind, even though Harry usually lived with his nasty aunt and uncle because his parents were doing tours over in Somalia for the UN. He hadn't seen them both at the same time in years.

And she was so close to graduating top of her class. For all she knew, there was some rich bastard over at Hogwarts Academy that had even better grades than she did, and then she would be second, and that was just not acceptable. Not when she was already in danger of losing a university education due to financial circumstance. She hoped for a scholarship to Cambridge or Oxford –Oxford was her personal preference – or even somewhere over in America, Harvard or Princeton or Yale. She'd aced every single GCSE she'd ever had... and _this _was her reward? This was shit. Shit, shit_,_ _shit_.

Everyone at her current school already knew to _not get in the way_ when it came to grades, already knew that the best they could hope for was salutatorian. She wouldn't have much time to impress it upon the rich kids, starting off her last term at Hogwarts. What sort of a shit name was that, anyway?

They were all bound to give her a hard time about her background, about having to live off welfare for part of her life, about having to live in a dingy flat in London, three people to four rooms. At least Hogwarts didn't have a uniform, on top of all that, so she didn't have to fork out money for it. God knew there wasn't money to fork.

As Hermione stood back up, the blood rushed from her head, dizzying her. She looked down at her trunk miserably. She didn't want to leave the city. Heading into the countryside to attend school in a castle? What was this, the 1940s?

It was full scholarship, though, so in essence she had to attend. She hadn't managed to get complete scholarship to any boarding schools in London, much to her chagrin – even a couple thousand pounds a year was still too much.

"Hermione? Come on – you're going to miss your train," called a voice through the thin wall. Hermione cast her most withering glare at the disembodied voice of her mother. Even the train had issues; it had a _fraction_ in it. The nine and three quarters, direct to Hogwarts at five in the morning. The _nine and three quarters?_ It was far too early for that to be even mildly entertaining.

Hermione yanked her trunk over her threadbare rug out the door. "Coming, Mum, coming."

The bus ride to the station was irritated and short. Hermione arrived just as the train was pulling in. Her parents guided her to the ticket station and handed Hermione her student identification.

"We'll miss you so much, sweetie," whispered her mother, kissing her once on each cheek, her kind, round face filled with worry. "Write us over your breaks."

Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling more tired than angry. "I will. You'll do great in school, mum. Dad, good luck with that prick Harrington."

Her father chuckled. "Language," he said. "And sweetheart, don't … don't let anyone ... well, don't let them tell you who to be."

Her parents wrapped her in a swift hug, and just like that she was through the strangely concealed door to the Special Line, where the nine and three-quarters direct to Hogwarts waited, a big maroon train. There were only about ten or fifteen students boarding at the London stop, and they already looked very well-acquainted with each other, laughing and chatting and being infuriatingly well-dressed. Their trunks varied in size and in designer. She couldn't help noticing that not one of them had a shabby one like hers, but she quickly chided herself. _No, Hermione, you are _not_ embarrassed by how your trunk looks!_

She wheeled her trunk to the train, casting a glance around. She had developed her people skills significantly at her old school, so at least she knew not to start a conversation by spouting off the millions of facts she knew. But this silence was awkward. Several people were glancing over at her, their expressions varying, and Hermione blushed and stared at her worn brown boots.

"What's your name, then?" asked a blond girl with pigtails.

"Hermione Granger," said Hermione.

"Nice to meet you," said the girl firmly. "I'm Mafalda Hopkirk."

She stuck out a hand, which Hermione took, relief flooding her body. Then, Mafalda turned to her companion, a tall, gorgeous black girl with the most stylish coat Hermione had ever seen. "And that's how it's done," Mafalda said.

Hermione looked from one girl to the other. "How what's done?" she asked.

The black girl shrugged. "I was just telling Mafalda that I'm terrible at meeting new people. I just moved to London, see, so this is my first year at Hogwarts."

Hermione leapt at the opportunity, her immediate relief swelling into excitement. Fate was good to her today. "I'm new too! I thought I would be the only one."

Mafalda chuckled. "It won't matter, really. There are a couple new students every year, and everyone usually fits in well."

The black girl shook back her hair. "I'm just worried about the people there. They're all bound to be perfect – I mean, Hogwarts only takes the best, what with the prestige and the big name and all."

Hermione looked down at her hands and said nothing.

Mafalda looked at her curiously. "Are you alright?"

Hermione waved a hand. "Yes, I just – I'm a scholarship student. Full scholarship, actually, and I'm just – well, my main worry is that people will be rude about my financial situation. Do you think … think they …"

The other two girls both looked utterly shocked, and Hermione suddenly felt intensely uncomfortable. Was she about to be judged for the first time in a long line of judgments? "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," said Mafalda. "First off, I wouldn't have guessed. Your look is so grunge. It's very in – all the models at Topshop are wearing distressed and patched."

Hermione snorted. Why would anyone purchase distressed clothes? Having worn many an item of clothing to shreds, she didn't see the appeal.

"And secondly," Mafalda said, "it's just – Hogwarts has only taken one full scholarship student in, what, twenty years? I don't even know who it is, either."

"Yeah," agreed the black girl. "It's on their website. You must be brilliant! I'm Zara, by the way. Zara Johnson. Spelled with a Z." She pronounced it like 'Sara'.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. The two girls were just impressed by her, which was flattering. She hadn't realized Hogwarts scholarships were so rare. "Well, I – thanks," Hermione said. "Shall we board now? We don't have assigned seating, do we?"

Mafalda laughed. "No. There's a lot of freedom at Hogwarts. Lord knows my parents pay enough for me to get some leeway."

Hermione tugged her trunk over the gap, suddenly feeling better about its dilapidated condition. The three girls walked into a compartment and shoved their trunks into the overhead compartment as Mafalda waved to a boy outside the door.

He walked in. The boy was short, blond, and muscular, with a perfectly white grin on his face. "Hello, all! And thanks for _waiting_, Mafalda. Although I suppose you're used to reneging on promises, eh?"

Mafalda rolled her eyes, waving a hand vaguely in his direction. "This is Trenton Bode."

"You lovely ladies can call me Trent," he said.

"Sleaze check," Mafalda said. "Trent, this is Zara Johnson and Hermione Granger. You two had better get used to him. Once he's got his claws in you, you'll never get rid of him."

Bode slung his trunk haphazardly into the overhead compartment and flopped down into a seat, checking the door before pulling out a lighter.

"No, you are _not_ getting high on the train ride over," said Mafalda firmly, holding out a hand for the lighter.

Bode sighed and placed it in her hand. "Look, you know I'll be spending all my time in Huff'n'Puff. It's my last year, for fuck's sake."

Hermione exchanged a questioning glance with Zara. Mafalda correctly interpreted it and said, "Huff'n'Puff is one of a few spots on campus where people group with their so-called 'type'. In this case, the stoners. Practically everyone who owns a bong goes to Huff'n'Puff to light up."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Lovely. And... there are others?"

Mafalda nodded. "There's a place called Griffin's Door Archway, and behind that is a courtyard. The people who dorm looking out over that courtyard are usually the kids who play a sport. Then there's the people who host Raven Club, up in the tower dorms – that lot are sort of snooty and elite – and down in the sub-basement is Slither's Den. A bit dodgy, that last. Wouldn't recommend it."

Hermione sighed. Same old differences, but now they were sorted into sleeping location. Wonderful. "Where are you?" she asked.

"Me?" Mafalda said. "I room past Griffin's Door, myself. I play football, and most of the team is on the same hall."

Nodding, Hermione sat back a little as the train juddered into a start. There were several more stops throughout the day, and the train filled up bit by bit. Another of Mafalda's friends, a vaguely Italian-looking boy named Nick Abbott, joined their compartment, and everyone got along quite well, Hermione mused. Nick was fourth in the class, and a frequent attendee of Raven Club.

Then, just when Hermione's fear was starting to fade altogether, unpleasantness struck with the smell of cigarette smoke and the sight of jeans that were just ripped enough to look woeful, but just together enough that it was clear that some designer had ripped them. The compartment door slid open, revealing two boys in the opening. The first was tall, slim, and blond, with a casually unpleasant look about his face. The second was a little shorter, a vicious edge to his brown eyes, an odd pin on his plain black t-shirt. Both were impossibly attractive, and it briefly occurred to Hermione that money could indeed buy looks.

"Would you all mind moving?" said the blond. "This compartment has better ventilation than most."

Mafalda shot him an _are-you-serious_ look. "As if," she snorted.

The dark-haired one gave everyone in the compartment a once-over, his hands in his perfectly distressed pockets.

"You should move," the blond one said, and something suddenly appeared in his hand – a small Swiss pocketknife. Hermione eyed it with alarm.

"Oh, give it a rest, Malfoy," sighed Trent, rolling his blue eyes. "The compartment across the hall is exactly the same, and you know it."

Hermione recognized the name. Malfoy. The Malfoys used to handle most of VoldeMart's affairs, including overseas business, like, say, selling jobs to China. Until this year, that was, when apparently there was a bit of a power shift within the ranks of VoldeMart, although the media hadn't really been able to discover much about it. The whole company was annoyingly closed-up about all its affairs. Hermione's lip curled involuntarily in dislike.

"You got a problem?" said a cool voice. Hermione glanced up. The dark-haired one was talking to her.

"No, I don't 'got a problem'," she said coldly.

The two boys in the door exchanged amused glances.

"Hey, don't get so mad, sweetheart," drawled the blond, brushing back his perfect hair. "Nice _shoes_, by the way."

Hermione looked down at her worn-down boots and swallowed. Here was where it started. This was what she'd expected.

But the dark-haired one intervened, and she didn't really know why. "Lay off, Abraxas. It's not her fault if she doesn't choose to wear shoes worth more than the average house."

Yet there was a tone to that almost-joking sentence that was definitely derogatory, and Hermione picked up on it.

"Yes, _Abraxas_," Hermione said, lips pursed tight. "Just like it's not your fault that you can't manage to afford any manners."

Zara grinned widely at that, and the rest of the people sitting in the compartment looked amused. Hermione felt a sense of victory.

"What's your name?" asked Abraxas.

"Hermione Granger," Hermione said, looking him in the eye with a lot more confidence than she felt.

"I have a feeling you're going to have an interesting year," Abraxas said calmly. "If I were you, I -"

"Let's go," said the dark-haired one, not seeming to care that he'd interrupted Abraxas. Weirdly, Abraxas didn't seem to mind much either. His mouth closed and he followed the other without complaint.

"Damn, Hermione," said Nick as the door slid shut. "Someone's got a temper."

Hermione sighed and shrank back into her seat, unclenching her fists. She hadn't been planning on letting it get out of hand her first day. At least, not where people could see. "I can't stand prejudice," she said shortly, and crossed her legs, looking out the window once more.

"Malfoy's a pain in the arse," said Bode. "Riddle's not so bad, though. He seems like he'd be all right if he didn't mix in with those idiots down in the Den."

Riddle – the dark one, then. Hermione stored the information away.

"I like their jeans," Zara said dryly, "though I think they'd look better on me, personally." Hermione laughed.

"You definitely have better legs," said Trent, with another sleazy grin.

Mafalda sighed and shook her head with a bounce of the pigtails.

It took a few more hours before the rolling hills ended. The nine-and-three-quarters pulled into a stop at a castle. There was a lake out front, a few tennis courts around back, a football field around the side, and woods off on the opposite side of the school. "Home sweet Hoggy," said Mafalda, reaching up for her trunk. "You'll love it here. Don't let the reputation scare you."

So saying, she yanked her things from the overhead compartment and wheeled them out the door, closely followed by Bode and Abbott. Zara and Hermione trailed after them.

To Hermione's relief, she found that most of her anger had dripped away on the pleasant ride over, to be replaced with curiosity. She, along with the other new students, had to visit the Headmaster's office first.

The Head was a rather infuriating man named Armando Dippet, who managed to talk for twenty minutes and yet give them no information at all. Then he told them to wait a moment, because he had to call a couple of helpers to help orient the new students around the school.

"These are our best and our brightest." Dippet sighed proudly, as if he had birthed them himself, and opened the door with unnecessary dramatic flair. Two people walked in, a girl and a boy. Hermione didn't recognize the girl, although she did recognize the Lilly Pulitzer dress she wore and the Ralph Lauren shoes on her feet. But the boy was familiar. Riddle, from the train compartment, black shirt and ripped jeans flattering on his tall body, looking, if possible, even more utterly bored than before.

"This is Caroline Longbottom," said Dippet, "and Tom Riddle. They are our Head Girl and Head Boy, and second and first in the class, respectively." He gave a gray smile. "Tom, how about you take these two, and Caroline, these two?"

Zara and Hermione were ushered into Riddle's care, while the other new students, an Egyptian-looking pair of twins who looked like they'd be going into first year, were ferried off swiftly by Caroline.

"Goodbye, Tom," said Dippet, with sickening appreciation in his tone.

"Good afternoon, Headmaster," said Riddle, and shut the door behind Zara and Hermione as they left. "Right. I'm supposing that neither of you two has visited. The ones who've been before usually don't go to the Headmaster."

Zara and Hermione both shook their heads.

"Well, then, let's start with the grounds," said Riddle, beckoning them out a wooden side door. "This is the Forbidden Forest. You're not allowed to swim in the lake, either. Some people do anyway, but it's disgusting, so I wouldn't. The tennis courts are in the back. There's a swimming pool for lengths next to the football field, which is also the rugby field, in case either of you... well, you probably wouldn't be rugby players."

Riddle gave them a reserved smile. Hermione found herself agreeing with what Trent had said; Riddle didn't seem that bad.

"Alright," said Riddle. "Let's move onto rooming. There are some doubles and some singles, depending on where you choose your housing."

He led them downstairs. The lights underground were warm fluorescents, making everything seem smooth and dark, and the ceilings hung low over their heads. Riddle led them around a few turns, and then opened a big walnut door. Inside lay a large television, and several black sofas, though most everything seemed to be green. "This is what the students call the Den," he said. "Slither's Den, to be specific. Parties on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, if you have a pass."

Riddle showed them the Great Hall, for meals, and then led them up a huge set of staircases. "On the next floors, it's all classrooms, but up at the top, there are a few towers. Raven Club meets the same days as the Den, but they're a bit more... reserved." A smirk curled the edge of his lip. "Anyway, you can take these lifts, or the stairs," he said, nodding over at the clear glass lifts whose cables were strung up through blank space. It would be like flying to ride those, Hermione mused.

They left the main section of the castle. "This is the side housing," said Riddle, pointing a few hundred yards away, at a small but stately building to the side. "There's a room fondly nicknamed Huff'n'Puff right in the middle, so if you don't fancy your dorm smelling like weed all the time, you might want to room on the outskirts."

Last, Riddle led them around to the tennis courts. Through a large, weathered stone arch, which had a griffin perched at its apex, was a small courtyard. "All these rooms are for the Griffin's Door people. Conveniently close to the courts and fields, if you need easy access to sports."

He nodded, seemed to think for a second, and then turned back to them. "Well, that's pretty much all. Breakfast starts at eight in the morning; class starts at nine. We're out by half-four in the evening. Dinner at half-past seven. If you need anything, the Head Boy and Head Girl rooms are the first doors on the left on the First Floor, right off the lift. Hogwarts is a great place. You'll have a good year."

Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled off. Zara and Hermione watched him go and then turned to each other. "Wow," said Zara. "He's gorgeous. And he's first in the class?"

Hermione nodded. So that was her competition... "He probably gets around. All the attractive ones do."

Zara cast a glance at Riddle's distant back. "Ah, well. I'll bet there are some good guys who aren't utterly out of my league."

Hermione scoffed. "You are completely in that league. Look at you."

Grinning, Zara looked up at the dorms. "You're rooming here, right? Even if you're not much into the sports, these rooms have a great view."

"Yeah. Relaxing. Good for a good bit of homework."

"Homework. Oh, goodness. If you ever have time, I could use a good bit of help with maths..."

Hermione was used to helping people with homework. "Don't even worry about it," she chuckled, and she and Zara pulled their trunks into the Griffin's Door dorms to find Mafalda.

oOo

"He's angry," was the whispered rush around the Den. Girls stopped preparing to get his attention, and boys swallowed and slouched down a little lower in the squashy sofas. How was he already in a bad mood? It was the first day of term, for Christ's sake. What could he get angry about?

But they would never voice those thoughts aloud, not as Tom Riddle opened the door and shut it quietly behind him. With a stiff jaw, he looked around the dimly-lit room, and then walked past sofas and congregated students, only a faint suggestion of a frown on his face. He pulled open the door at the back of the room. It connected to a nearly-black chamber, where the only lights were spinning lasers and strobes, where music thudded dangerously. Riddle glanced around. Around one of the round wooden tables sat several boys, and he made his way over to them.

They slowly looked up, dread evident on a few of their faces, turned chaotic by the spiraling lights. He stood with his thumbs hooked into the frayed loops of his dark jeans, practically-black eyes moving from person to person. "I'd like to know why the numbers are like they are," he said, his voice hardly traveling over the music, "and that doesn't mean I want to hear your excuses. I'd like to know what you're doing to fix them. I'd like to know why the shareholders are angry. I'd like to know what the issue is, and why there is something that is _out of my control_. I'd like to know by eight o'clock."

He turned on his heel and left the boys behind him in utter silence. His hand made its way through his feathered dark hair, his other hand absentmindedly flicking the Head Boy pin on his soft t-shirt. This was not a good way to start the year, or to end the fiscal year. There was no adequate explanation as to why everyone in the world seemed to have problems with _simple economics _except for him. This was hardly rocket science. He wasn't asking them to make a time machine, for God's sake. He wasn't asking them to smuggle cocaine into a nursery; he wasn't asking them to bomb Big Ben; he wasn't asking them to fix global warming. They had everything they needed, so why was he the only one who seemed to be able to do _anything_ right?

Something twitched in Riddle's mouth as he made his way back into the lounge of the Den. The effort he was exerting to keep himself some semblance of reserved was utterly lost on the cretins of Hogwarts. They were probably worrying about classes, probably worrying about social lives and passes to the Den and who had the newest designer wardrobe, all this petty stuff that couldn't matter less. He was trying to run a worldwide corporation, and he would graduate as valedictorian and then go public as the inherited CEO – a perfect mark to start a perfect record on what _would be_ a perfect life, even if all the morons around him were apparently determined to ruin it.

He lurked around the back, where a few kids were lighting up. Picking up a silver lighter, Riddle lit a piece of paper on fire in his hand, watched it reddening and curling and blackening, watched the singing orange edges of it approach his hand. Then he dropped it to the stone floor and crushed it with his heel.

He lit himself a cigarette, threw himself into a sofa, and kneaded his forehead, letting out a tired sigh. There would be time for all this worrying later. It was the first day of the school year; he didn't want to get off on a bad foot.

"Hey, Tom," said a voice. Two pretty girls sat down next to him. He looked over at them with an appreciative eye.

"How was your summer, then?" asked one of them, a blonde, stretching out her long, tan legs.

He let his eyes wander away from them to the blaring television. "Fine."

The redhead played with her hair. "Better make the most of your last year," she said, and her glossed lips smiled.

"Of course," Riddle said, a confident smirk making its way onto his mouth. "I don't doubt I will."

* * *

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**Speechwriter.**


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**Why hello there!**

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** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

Hermione woke up angry. Somehow, while she slept, the feeling of complete injustice had managed to creep back into her mind. She felt like calling Harry and Ron and telling them to come pick her up and take her back to her real school – _a _real school. As opposed to this resort-like _castle_ out where there wouldn't even have been mobile reception if they didn't have their very own tower rising above the forest.

Her dorm, a single, overlooked the courtyard from three stories up. It was a calming view, and Hermione had been relieved to find that her neighbors were both very nice and that neither of them had an affinity for blasting rap music or anything similar. It was a boon, to be sure, especially since Zara had told Hermione at dinner about her own adjacent rooms. To Zara's left lived a pair of giggling girls who apparently loved the various works of Ke$ha, and to her right lived a mediocre electric guitarist who had seen fit to bring his amp to Hogwarts. So Hermione didn't feel mad about her room. Just mad in general.

It was a bit of a strange feeling, her mother finally leaving to finish law school, her father leaving to regain that job he'd always hated. Hermione felt a burn in her chest at the thought of her father. He was so deserving of his dream profession, of everything he had ever wanted – but he'd never really had the chance. Going to university had never even been an option for him, not with his three younger sisters, not with his single mother. Straight into the workforce it was, and he had never really been the most ambitious of types.

That lack of drive was the complete opposite of Hermione's mother, a fiery go-getter who dreamed of going skydiving in Australia someday, and that clash of personality had made them separate in the first place. It had thrown their family's financial situation into complete disarray, with double mortgages to deal with all while the housing market was being undercut by the rapidly deflating economy. When her mum sold her own flat and moved back in with Hermione's dad, she got practically no money, and it was only really then that she managed to find a stable job – at the factory, where Hermione's father was an assistant manager. It was strange for him, being her superior, and that had been the source of many a late-night fight as Hermione attempted to study.

And now? Now, the complete disbandment of everything Hermione had ever been accustomed to?

Well, it did nothing for her mood, that was for sure.

Hermione frustratedly yanked a brush through her hair. She'd considered just cutting it off so many times. It really wasn't worth the anguish.

She threw on a red shirt, a fraying brown hoodie, and some dark jeans, pulling on her boots before leaving for breakfast. Schedules, apparently, arrived at the first breakfast, and Hermione was eager to see how it worked. The classes were the one thing about this school that she actually looked forward to; there were some brilliant minds teaching here that she couldn't wait to discover.

Four big tables sat in the Great Hall. All the different groups of people seemed to align themselves naturally around them – over at the table to the far right, the boys with the distressed jeans and the girls with the distressed makeup; to their left, the laughing, just-a-little-too-cheerful, red-eyed folk; to their left, the kids with pocket mirrors and advanced trigonometry textbooks in the same hand; and on the far left, the rowdy, boisterous crowd which seemed to just be itching for a food fight to ensue.

Hermione was beckoned to the left by Zara, who sat opposite Mafalda. Hermione eyed Zara's attire with an almost dumbfounded eye; she looked as if she had stepped right off the pages of a magazine. She wore a light brown leather jacket over a wrinkled white button-up, with glimmering shoes that wrapped up her ankles. The fact that Hermione had noticed at all was sort of a feat in itself; she usually didn't dedicate her time to thinking about such things. Hermione wondered briefly if coordinating this sort of thing just came naturally to Zara, or if she spent ages planning everything.

As Hermione sat down, there was a tinkle of glass from the head table. The chattering died away as Armando Dippet rose.

"When the bell rings, you will receive your schedules from your chaperones," he said. "Have an excellent first day of class."

He sat back down, and Hermione frowned. "What does he mean, chaperones?"

"There are four teachers that are sort of like assistant Headmasters," Mafalda said through a mouthful of egg. "They each supervise one rooming block. Ours is Dumbledore – there, that one."

Hermione's head whipped around to stare at Dumbledore. He was world-renowned for his work on deciphering the evolution of the human genome using centuries-old DNA to assist him, as well as managing to beat out Gellert Grindelwald the same year for a Nobel Prize in medicine. He was supposedly highly eccentric, but he didn't look it as Hermione observed him. He had a vague smile, and his wrinkled face and kind blue eyes were almost reassuring to look at, as if he were an old friend waiting for rediscovery. "Wow," Hermione breathed. "So that's the famous Albus Dumbledore..."

Mafalda nodded. "He's a nutter," she said in a low voice. "Absolutely brilliant, of course, but he doesn't even seem like he's there half the time."

Well, Hermione thought, seeming like it didn't necessarily mean he _wasn't_ all there. Perhaps he was just absorbed in his own thoughts. With a mind like his, it must have been difficult not to be.

A great, tolling bell rang, and a massive scraping and clattering ensued as students stood. Hermione, Zara and Mafalda forced to the front of the crowd and waited for Dumbledore to call their names.

Hermione broke the unnecessary wax seal on her schedule and unfolded it, scanning her classes. Four classes a day, five days a week – that made twenty periods, and Hermione was taking eleven classes. Each class only met twice a week, but that still meant that Hermione didn't have enough time. She discovered that she had an evening class on Thursdays and an early morning class on Mondays. That wasn't too bad, she mused.

Mafalda peered over at Hermione's schedule and her eyebrows soared so high they were in danger of seasonal migration. "What... _what_ are you _taking_?" she said, her tone of voice deathbed.

Hermione read off the sheet. "French, Latin, European History, Advanced Economics, Linguistics, International Relations, Organic Chemistry, Biology, Evolution, Practical Application of Life Skills, whatever that is, and university-level Linear Algebra."

Her friends _stared_. Hermione had forgotten what it was like to be around people who had no idea of her intellectual level. She sighed and perused her schedule one more time. "Well, what are you two taking?"

"I'm only taking seven classes," Zara said. "Pre-Calculus, French, History, Economics, Chemistry, Evolution, and Practical Application."

Hermione frowned. "Wait, but wouldn't that mean you have a bunch of free periods?"

Zara nodded. "So I can do my _homework_, Hermione. Honestly, I don't know how you're going to manage that schedule."

"It'll work out," Hermione reassured, and the bell rang again. "Oh, wait – do either of you have Organic Chemistry?"

Both her friends shook their heads. "That class is _impossible_," Mafalda said. "The teacher's really... odd, too. It's down near the Den, I reckon you can find it pretty easily."

"Alright," Hermione said uneasily. She felt like once she stepped away from Mafalda and Zara, she would be drowned in the tumult of rich kids she didn't know. "I'll see you at lunch, then?"

"Yeah, course," said Zara.

Hermione hoisted her bag a little higher on her shoulder and headed toward the staircase, leaving Mafalda and Zara exchanging still-aghast looks behind her.

It wasn't hard to find the Chemistry classroom – it seemed to be the only classroom on this floor, buried amid a host of dorms. The room was mostly empty when Hermione walked in, and it remained that way, because apparently only nine students were taking the class that year. Hermione was immensely relieved that she already knew one them, Nick Abbott. She sat next to him and eyed the rest of the student population. Caroline Longbottom and Tom Riddle were both there, as was Abraxas Malfoy, Hermione noted with a twinge of dislike. There were a few other girls and boys, all of whom fell silent when the teacher walked in.

He looked very... jovial. Rounded in the stomach area, to be sure, and with facial features that were not unlike that of a walrus. He surveyed the room. "Oh, lovely! Big class this year."

Hermione whispered to Nick, "Is he being sarcastic?"

"Not at all."

"Welcome to Organic Chemistry," said the professor. "I'm Professor Slughorn, and I daresay we shall all get along swimmingly, despite the grades that some of you are bound to receive. After all, this class is famed as one of the hardest that is offered here at Hogwarts, and for good reason, too." He chuckled, like he had made a joke. Hermione didn't see what was funny. "In any case, take out your textbooks. Turn to page four. We'll be taking the quick diagnostic test on that page, just to see where you all are from previous classes, studying, all that."

Hermione nearly grinned. A diagnostic test? Lovely.

She barreled through it and was pleased to see that she finished before everyone except Tom Riddle, who seemed to lay down his pencil at the exact moment Hermione dropped her own. Slughorn picked up their papers.

She looked over at Tom Riddle and gave him a halfhearted smile. She hoped that their tying to finish this test wasn't some terrible metaphor for them tying for first in the class or something. No. She had to win.

He gave her a seemingly-appreciative nod, his lazy dark stare wandering up and down her body a bit disconcertingly. She wondered if he was judging her appearance, or if he was just being a regular teenage boy. But that was stupid – no one at Hogwarts was a regular teenager, and that went double for the first in the class.

Slughorn checked the papers lightning-fast and then looked back up at the class. "Well, these results are... most enlightening," he said, a crease in between his bushy eyebrows. "I do believe these two perfect scores are the first I've had in a few years. I know who you are, Mr. Riddle, of course, but who is Hermione Granger?"

Hermione raised her hand tentatively. Apparently, Slughorn didn't have any qualms about making public examples out of people.

"Yes, an excellent job, both of you," Slughorn said, and Hermione was a bit creeped out by the look he gave her. She wouldn't classify it under 'child-molester', per se; it was more like a cross between 'avid-comics-collector-finding-original-Superman-book' and 'wine-critic-sampling-a-delectable-Cabernet-Sauvignon'. In any case, it wasn't necessarily a bad look, just a bit strange, and Hermione was reminded of Mafalda's apt description of him as 'odd'. Slughorn continued, "With that... let's move into our first lesson, which is deceptively simple – classification of hydrocarbons."

The class culminated in the assignment of six short essay questions and forty pages of reading. Hermione wrote it in her oh-so-handy planner. She usually managed to cycle through three planners every year, which was an unfortunate expenditure, but she was opening and shutting the flimsy books so often that it was a miracle they held together for a few months at all.

She checked her schedule. Advanced Economics, next, on the fifth floor. As the bell rang, Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder, gritting her teeth with the weight, and walked out the door.

She didn't look forward to economics. VoldeMart inevitably came up in classes about economics, and that made Hermione itch to raise her hand and rant about the political and social evils of the commercial empire ... but she couldn't do that. She didn't want to make enemies out of too many students here, after all, and doubtless many Hogwarts families were at least shareholders in VoldeMart, even if they weren't actually on the corporate ladder.

Hermione was a bit curious, actually, about how the issue of VoldeMart would be handled. Surely Hogwarts didn't want to estrange any of its students, but it was pure fact that VoldeMart was taking its toll on the small-business world of Great Britain, subverting prices and overemploying at every opportunity. What would the teachers say? What did the teachers _want_ to say? In Hermione's experience with teachers, they were, in large part, leftists, although that might not be the case at Hogwarts, the pretentious prep school to end all pretentious prep schools.

Hermione stopped at the corner. The halls were so winding down here near the Den – she couldn't remember where to go to get back to the stairs.

"Make a right," said a voice from behind her. Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Tom Riddle strolled towards her, a pencil stuck behind his ear and a suspiciously empty-looking leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"Thanks," she said. "Good job on your diagnostic."

He smiled a bit. "Yeah, you too. Already taken Advanced Chemistry, then?"

"Year before last."

Riddle stuck his hands in the pockets of his overlarge green jacket, which was faintly military-reminiscent, boxy and frayed. "So, what class are you looking for?"

"Advanced Economics."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Hey, that's my next class, too. Advanced Economics and Organic Chemistry, same year? Someone's ambitious."

Hermione frowned a little at the word. "I've got it under control," she said, and smiled a little just at the very notion of Hermione Granger letting schoolwork get the better of her.

He smirked and glanced off to the side. Hermione couldn't keep her eyes off him. He looked such the stereotypical bad boy that it was ludicrous to imagine that he was first in the class and Head Boy. His hair, chaotic and soft-looking, rose above his forehead a little, casting a shadow over his brown eyes. Yet Hermione could have sworn that it had looked exactly the same yesterday, exactly the same disorder, like he carefully kept it that way. Hermione remembered Harry's hair and restrained a laugh – his had looked nearly the same, only he had never had to work to make it untidy.

"So, ah, if you don't mind me asking, what other classes have you 'got under control'?" asked Riddle, directing his smirk with full force at her. Hermione's heart skipped a beat. His eyes wandered over her face as if it belonged to him, and it disconcerted, unnerved, and exhilarated her.

Hermione pressed a button next to one of the many lift cables, and one of the elevators sped towards them. "Lots," she said vaguely. It would be better if he didn't know about his most dangerous competition. Maybe, since it was the last year of school, he would be prone to slacking, like most people.

"Yeah, got that," he chuckled. "That bag looks like it's about to pop. You sure you're not going to fall over?"

Hermione hoisted the bag higher, ignoring the way her shoulder seemed to be praying for relief. "It is a bit heavy, I suppose," she said.

"Well, let me guess your classes," sighed Riddle, counting off on his long fingers. "Practical Applications, of course, since it's required. Advanced Economics and Organic, evidently. Probably... Latin, too?" He cast her a searching glance, as if 'Latin' were written on her forehead. "Linguistics... Evolution... European History... and I can't guess at your maths."

Hermione shot him a bit of a weird look. It was like he'd gotten hold of her schedule, although he'd left a couple off. "Well, yes, actually, all of those," she said slowly. "And my maths is linear algebra. A couple others, though. Honors Biology, French, and International Relations."

The glass lift whistled to a dangerously abrupt stop right next to Hermione. She cast it an alarmed glance, but looked back at Riddle as he chuckled softly. "Good Lord, that's a lot of classes," he said. "International Relations, though? Really?"

Her voice was curt. "Yes. I've always thought that being able to communicate was something that countries really ought to have a better hold on."

They stepped into the lift, and Hermione swallowed as it bobbed up and down slightly. This really didn't feel safe. Riddle tapped the '5' on the side of the elevator, and the doors hissed shut. He leaned against the glass, looking perfectly at ease, even as Hermione felt a very strong desire to curl into a ball as she looked down through the clear floor. "How did you guess all those classes?" she asked.

"Well, those were some of the classes I'm taking," he yawned, looking out at the Hogwarts interior as the lift sped upwards. Hermione grabbed onto the railing, and Riddle continued, "I figured you wouldn't be much interested in Engineering, or Marketing, though. Or Political Science. Most girls just take Economics because it's required."

Hermione shrugged. "I did consider Political Science, but I thought French would be a bit more applicable." Her heart sank. He was also taking eleven classes. She had figured no one else would take so many.

"That's a lot to keep a grip on," said Riddle as the doors opened. "You sure you can handle it?"

"Are you?" Hermione said. Her gaze settled on the pencil behind his ear. Its presence was disarming. It was almost... cute, though she didn't think she could use that word to describe anything else about the boy.

He let out a derisive chuckle. "Oh, don't worry about me, sweetheart," he said. Hermione followed him through the crowded hallways on the fifth floor. "You think you'll have time to have a social life?"

Hermione shrugged, a bit irritated by how he'd called her 'sweetheart'. Who did he think he was, the school nurse? "School comes first," she said. "I reckon I'll have at least a bit of extra time to myself, though."

Riddle stopped outside the Economics classroom. Hermione peered into the bustling interior.

"Well," he said, "if we have that many of the same classes, I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other this year."

Her mind did not interpret that correctly for a few seconds.

"Nice talking to you," he said.

She forced back her blush. "And you."

He turned, stretching out his arms as if he were just waking up, and walked over to sit near the middle of the classroom.

Hermione searched the class, and her eyes settled on Mafalda. She took a seat next to her curly-haired friend, casting one last glance at Tom Riddle. He sat at his desk as if it were a lounge chair, taking that weirdly endearing pencil from behind his ear and twirling it with two long fingers.

"Let me guess," said Mafalda, "you were just bonding with Tom Riddle over the fact that your schedules are both impossible?"

"Yep! He really is a nice guy."

Mafalda shrugged, lowering her voice. "Yeah, whatever. I've heard he's just as biased as any of his buddies from the Den. I'd be careful – there are a lot of idiots at this place who _will_ actually care that you're a scholarship student, even though there are lots who won't."

Well, that was what she had come in expecting. Actually, thus far, Hermione had been pleasantly surprised at nearly every turn. Despite the stupid deal with kids essentially rooming in glorified cliques, and the few glances her mismatched attire had gotten in the hallways, it wasn't bad at all, although that may just have been because no one actually knew she was on scholarship yet except Zara, Mafalda, Nick, and Trent.

Hogwarts, though... it just paled in comparison to her old school, where the teachers knew who she was, where everything was so familiar, where Ron was...

That was one of the main gripes her parents had had about her case for staying with the Weasleys – the fact that Hermione and Ron had just started dating. Hermione had a fit over that bit of reasoning, yelling at her parents about how little they trusted her and her judgment, that, what, did they think she was going to get pregnant or something? Not on her watch.

Ron hadn't been the most romantic boyfriend, but Hermione was such good friends with him in the first place that it didn't seem like much of a transition. And then the news. Her parents were laid off.

When Hermione first heard, she bought three cartons of eggs and smashed them on the back wall of a VoldeMart. Then, she called Ron and cried for three hours, before reluctantly starting to send out her application to boarding schools, feeling like she was writing her own death sentence. The worst part was writing the essays, writing about how much she needed help and how much she supposedly wanted to go to all these schools, because the second part was a lie, and the first was a personal insult. Hermione hated asking for help, _hated_ needing help on anything. Being a scholarship student was a kick to the shins, the insult to an injury, the blow below the proverbial belt.

And then the break-up. Hermione was so frustrated with that entire situation – it had taken them, what, _five years_ to realize their feelings for each other, and then after three weeks, oh, surprise, you're moving out to the countryside! Well, that had just been _fantastic_. She'd cried a bunch of fruitless tears and felt a bunch of fruitless misery, but her and Ron's friendship never suffered, and for that she was grateful. He was just a bit awkward about it. But then, that was the norm with Ron.

Hermione smiled a bit as she thought about Ron. What seemed to be a reel of his different facial expressions flashed through her mind – Ron indignant, Ron proud, Ron frustrated, Ron grinning, Ron bewildered, Ron appalled... so familiar, and so missed, already. Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat and looked up at the curve on the board, copying it precisely into her notebook. An economic trough, right after contraction, right before expansion. An emotional trough... all it could do was get better, right?

She heaved a sigh and raised her hand as the teacher, Professor Merrythought, asked a rather simple, rather asinine question.

oOo

Riddle put down his hand carefully. That girl was answering a question, and _God_, was she answering it. By the end of her response, which was like she had known about the question and had looked up an answer beforehand, most of the class stared shamelessly. She had the grace to look abashed, and Professor Merrythought sang her praises before continuing with the lesson.

Tom adjusted his hair, sighing. She'd just outlined, down to the last detail, the thing that every single person under his command apparently couldn't understand. Perhaps he should just recruit her, he mused, with a bit of rare humor in his thoughts. She was damn smart, even just going by that schedule and the Chemistry diagnostic. But she had already put herself in with those idiots over by the Door – not that she would have fit in too great at the Den, Riddle thought, as he eyed her clothes. There was a difference between looking stylishly drab and just looking like a VoldeMart mannequin.

Not that shopping at VoldeMart was a bad thing, of course.

Riddle turned back to the front of the classroom, half-wondering where the hell she'd found that brown hoodie. It looked like it couldn't have cost more than a few pounds, though going by the general student population, it was probably more like a few hundred... So many rich students spending money on clothes, money he himself could've put to so much better use.

Perhaps there was something to be said about her not-so-artfully-shabby appearance. After all, she hadn't taken to Malfoy's comment about her boots yesterday well. No, not a great sense of humor on that girl, even if Abraxas' jokes always did leave something to be desired. Riddle hadn't even heard of distressed boots. Perhaps they were some new fad among the London elite; that would explain her defensiveness.

Riddle sighed. This class was so boring. For God's sake, he was wasting his time thinking about the _clothing_ of some new student – that was how unbelievably stimulating the class _wasn't_. Like he really needed to take an economics class. He was already his own economy.

The answers that his group had given him last night hadn't been entirely satisfactory, unfortunately for them. The stocks were sinking, which seemed counterintuitive, given the economy. Shouldn't people be _more_ inclined to buy from a place that sold as cheap as VoldeMart? Riddle sighed. They'd go back up again – they always did. No quarterly losses on his watch.

The day went on, and Riddle wasn't particularly surprised by anything, except maybe by being a bit impressed with how _much_ that girl knew. Every class was like a Hermione Granger lecture session. It was almost annoying, but not quite. Just turned out sort of amusing.

First day of term this year happened to be a Wednesday, so the party season started with fervor. They cranked up the music in the Den even louder than usual, had an open bar in the back room, and the lounge filled up with loudness and laughter like a hot bath.

Riddle had some homework, but he'd already done most of it in class, so he decided to drop by and check on things. The two idiots at the door, Angus Crabbe and Teddy Parkinson, recognized him from a mile away and stepped back.

He walked into the lounge, glancing around. It was loud that night, which he'd expected, given it was the first of the year. Riddle tugged a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it between his lips, walking to the back for a light. He breathed in, and then exhaled slowly, sending a stream of smoke to hang around his head. Whoever was handling the drugs tonight was being extra-subtle, it seemed, in case a teacher happened to walk in for whatever reason. No one was doing lines off the side table, anyway, which was sort of a rarity.

Riddle turned, the cigarette between his fingers held loosely by his side. Health risks – whatever. He could quit whenever he wanted, easy. Everything was easy, after all.

He stripped off his green jacket and hung it on the doorknob to the back room, stretching out until his back cracked, his muscles flexing slightly. A hand landed on his bare arm. He turned.

"Iris Parkinson," he said slowly, savoring the words. How Teddy Parkinson had such a fine sister was a total mystery. She was in the year below him, blonde and attractive in a strange way, her close facial features as curved and voluptuous as the rest of her.

"Hey," she said with a smile.

"How was summer?" asked Riddle, like he genuinely cared. The best part about Iris was that she knew he didn't actually give two shits, and she didn't mind.

"Just waiting to get back, I guess," she replied, lifting one eyebrow like the words were suggestive. Riddle took another drag on his cigarette.

"Come on," he decided, and slung an arm around her shoulder, leading her into one of the rooms behind the black back room, amused by the misplaced look of victory on her face, like she ever could have influenced his choice of what, or whom, to do with his time.

Dinner was perhaps the best of Hermione's life. She couldn't believe how _much_ Hogwarts provided, laid on the giant tables in these magnificent dishes, a royal feast. She suddenly regretted having skipped dinner yesterday to sleep; if dinner was like this all the time, then she might never skip another meal in her life.

She sped through her homework, spending more time than was necessary on the economics paper. It was about 8:30 when Mafalda knocked on the door and peeked around it to see what she was working on.

"Jesus, Hermione, Merrythought didn't assign us a _novel_," Mafalda yelped, eyeing Hermione's essay with alarm.

"I'm passionate about the subject." The subject? VoldeMart.

Hermione hoped Merrythought didn't really care one way or the other about VoldeMart, so that he wouldn't mind – or wouldn't pick up – the vehemence with which she wrote. She was really letting the paper have it, though. Three pages handwritten quickly turned into six, her handwriting frantic and squished between the lines like it was trying to force its way out.

"You're, like, the only girl I know who cares about economics," sighed Mafalda, sitting down on Hermione's bed.

"Well, in my opinion, more people _should_ care," Hermione said, stapling her essay together. "Then maybe things like _this –_" she brandished the sheaf of paper – "wouldn't happen."

"Things like … you writing a way-too-long essay?" asked Mafalda, looking a bit puzzled.

"No," Hermione laughed, her righteous anger deflating. "No way to prevent that. I meant things like VoldeMart. It's really doing terrible things to our country, but no one will take a step back and look at the social and moral injustices it's created." She let out a tired sigh. "Whatever. Like I'm going to find many sympathizers here at Hogwarts Academy for High Society Teenagers. No offense."

Mafalda shrugged. "None taken. You're right, really. Most everyone here's at least got one stinking rich parent, or if not that, a grandparent or two. We just take it as it comes." Hermione snorted and picked up her linguistics textbook. Just this, and then she was done for the night, and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet. Then, there were only two days left in the week. Good way to ease into the term, that was for sure.

"Hey, Hermione," said Mafalda, "do you want to go and check out the pool?"

"What?"

Mafalda said, "It's where the people from Griffin's Door usually meet up. I mean, it's a Wednesday night, so I was thinking that we could go and see if there was something going on, if you'd like."

Hermione smiled. "Sure, but I have to answer some passage-based questions for Linguistics. Do you want to go get Zara, or someone, and we can go together? I should be done by nine fifteen or so."

"Yeah, I'll go ask her. We'll come pick you up then, yeah?"

"Great," Hermione said with a smile. Mafalda left, and Hermione wondered what Harry and Ron would say if they knew she was going to go and associate around a private pool with people who spent more on their left shoes than she spent all year. Ron would probably let out a breath and say, "Blimey, Hermione, good luck," and Harry would probably mutter something to the effect of "Pretentious..."

The linguistics took less time than anticipated, so Hermione checked herself in the mirror and added a scarf to her outfit in a bleak attempt to liven up her appearance, which she had always sort of considered to be a hopeless case. She sighed, sat on her bed, and flipped open a textbook for a bit of light reading.

oOo

"Shit, man, there you are," gasped Jonathan Avery, his light brown hair looking even more disheveled than usual.

"Can't you see I'm sort of busy?" growled Riddle, as Iris attempted to cover her naked chest.

"I, uh, I gotta talk to you, man," Avery said, gesturing with a hand, his eyes straying back to Iris.

Riddle sighed. "All right. Fine." He slipped his shirt back on, stood, and then turned back to Iris. To say she looked annoyed would have been a drastic understatement. "I'll be back in a moment," he said.

Riddle steered Avery back into the black room. The American boy was really pissing him off, always panicked, always worrying, always having a fit over something or other. Avery fidgeted, glancing from one side to the other, shifting from one foot to the other. "First: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, calm down," Riddle said. "Second of all, what so desperately requires you interrupting me?"

Avery's face struggled to calm itself in the flashing, multicolored lights. "Okay," he said, and pulled out his iPhone. "So I heard there's a new lawsuit against us."

Tom rolled his eyes. "And?"

"Well, it's not just the usual bullshit about some douche falling down in an aisle or something. It's this journalist lady who claimed that our PR gave her inaccurate information to run about some sales number. They're asking for a statement. Well, your statement."

Riddle sighed. "Look, Avery," he said, with as much forced patience as possible, "it's not like it's going to be run under my name anyway. Why would you think it appropriate to ask me?"

"Because Abraxas' dad is fucking freaking out, and he doesn't know what to say," Avery said.

"Good God," muttered Riddle, "the man is forty-six and he wants an eighteen-year-old to spoon-feed him a statement?" Avery opened his mouth to reply, but Riddle interrupted, "Rhetorical question. You tell him to tell whoever's asking that the number was a simple mistake. Whatever form of communication that journalist lady used, it was a communication error. Didn't hear her right over the phone, misread an email, whatever the hell it has to be – and then add on some apology about the seeming lack of transparency of the situation." He considered for a second. "Why is Abraxas' old man so worried, anyway?"

Avery swallowed. "He sort of... fucked the journalist lady."

Riddle closed his eyes and counted very slowly to ten. Eloquent words for an eloquent situation. "Wonderful. Tell him to please attempt to restrain his libido in the future. Is that all, Avery?"

"Yes, sir," said Avery.

"So I can go back in there and you won't come in?"

"Sure thing. Sir."

"Next time, just come up with something yourself. It's really not that damn hard. _Goodnight._"

The American boy swallowed as Riddle shut the door. Except it _was_ that damn hard, because if he did one thing wrong, there would be hell to pay. He looked down at the palm of his hand, at its ugly round cigarette burn, and then clenched his fist, trying to ignore the discomfort of the healing skin. He was paying the price now for what would be success later, he reassured himself. That was how they all reassured themselves.

Riddle got back to what he was doing, but, as usual, his mind was elsewhere. Rarely did a lawsuit manage to trickle through the bureaucracy and reach him, or the Malfoys, or the Blacks – anyone who mattered. He was mildly surprised that this journalist lady had been so persistent – usually, the settlements more than sated those who sued. Of course, the fact that this lady had had sex with Malfoy added to the indignance factor. Since the death of Malfoy's wife, he'd gone a bit crazy, so it was probably good that Riddle was heading things up now.

Riddle never trusted anyone but himself to do things right, and for good reason, apparently, after these last couple of weeks. The layoffs had stopped. He had demanded to know why. Employment costs had risen. He had demanded to know _why_. Hell, even purchasing costs had risen. What were they doing, suddenly starting to buy from domestic factories again? So that those people could keep their shitty low-class jobs? They'd find other employment. Come on; they were the _teeming masses_. They were hardly people at all; they were spoken of in bulk, as in, several _thousand_ workers were laid off today. And those several _thousand_ would find work elsewhere. Probably, some of them, at VoldeMart itself. They didn't matter. They'd survive.

He had nearly laughed when Professor Merrythought had assigned them a three-page essay – describe the benefits or disadvantages of one major multinational corporation. A fairly standard assignment for day one economics. Of course he'd chosen VoldeMart. What easier avenue was there? He hadn't been able to stop talking about the company, so the essay had turned out sort of longer than expected, but that was fine. It wasn't like he'd had to spend any significant amount of time on it.

Riddle slowly attempted to turn his attention back to the girl beneath him, but that was too much effort, so he just relaxed and let his mind wander where it would.

* * *

**YUP SO THERE'S CHAPTER TWO**

** Review Replies:**

** Kako:**

** Haha, YES there is going to be romance. I hate specifying genres... I feel under pressure... GAH But yeah, on the humor. I'm hoping if I were to come back and read it, I'd find it amusing too. XD**

** Anna on the Horizon:**

** XDDDD God I couldn't resist the 1940's jibe in chapter one... I thought about cutting it but I just couldn't.**

** Deator11:**

** Actually, I don't know from personal experience. I have a vague idea – there are some rich-ass people at my school, and I just went on that uncomfortable feeling and magnified it somewhat. I'm glad I managed to keep it sort of realistic.**


	3. imPrudential

** All my love to those who dropped me some words –**

** CupcakeChan95, Annevader, LowLevelMidge, Ameritakushoujo, november21, Kimiko16, KeitarosKeroNeko, BooklvrAnnie, Anna on the Horizon, Audrie, GoldenAura, ClaireReno, sweet-tang-honney, , deator11, and MissImpossible! You guys are phenom.**

** One reply re: LowLevelMidge:**

** You may not recognize all the classes for a few reasons – first of all, I based some classes vaguely on classes from Harry Potter. Second of all, I didn't really want the curriculum to be standard, 'cause I felt like Hogwarts Academy for Pretentious Assholes should be more irritatingly specialized than other schools. Third of all, I'm sort of shocked you recognized even half the classes if you're taking your A-levels over thar in the good ol' UK, because I'm a born-and-bred American who only knows anything about the UK education system through her cousin and mild online research. Ahahah.**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

Hermione had thought that Ron's house parties were good. Well, they couldn't compare to this. _This_, of course, being the fifty or so yelling, laughing, blathering students around and in the pool, some in bathing suits, some in clothes, all looking like they were having the time of their lives. The tile around the pool was slippery and dark, and Hermione could have sworn that the thudding bass of the speakers made patterns in the pool water. God, it was _loud_, and Hermione had never felt more out of her depth.

Mafalda had completely changed clothes, as had Zara, which was very odd to Hermione. Neither of them were wearing swimsuits, so why had they bothered to change?

"Hey, let's go get a drink," called Mafalda over the Rihanna, brushing back her blond hair. It wasn't a request. Mafalda didn't seem to make many requests, only orders, and Zara and Hermione followed her without question. Hermione still felt like a fledgling under the warm, comforting wing of the shorter, more experienced girl, who seemed well-connected and well-liked among the folk at Griffin's Door.

They forged through throngs of people, eventually reaching a dimly-lit table at the end of the patio. Zara took the nearest cup and took a tentative sip, and then nodded. "So, what's this?" she said loudly to Mafalda. "Vodka-Sprite?"

Hermione winced. Everything was alcoholic? Hermione had never seen fit to touch it in her life. Mrs. Weasley had never let alcohol cross her doorstep, so all the parties the Weasleys threw – which were really the only ones worth attending back at her old school – were dry.

Mafalda laughed. "Nah, I think that's something and rum. Does that look like Sprite to you?"

"It's dark out!" defended Zara, flipping her black hair over her shoulder. "I can't even see inside the cup."

"Is there anything... without alcohol?" Hermione asked.

Mafalda raised one thin eyebrow. "I'd doubt it. You could try the stuff on the end – I think that's just Coke, usually, but it gets a bit sketchy sometimes."

Hermione peered into the cups in question with great suspicion, and tasted the contents of one. She was satisfied – it had none of the sourness of alcohol, just tasted like regular soda. She smiled. "Alright, so what do you... you know, do here?"

Mafalda shrugged, looking around. "Just catch up with people, the first night, really. Compare schedules. All that generic stuff."

Zara and Hermione exchanged nervous looks, and Hermione felt relief filling her at the exchanged look. She was not the only one here who had to undergo the ordeal of meeting a new crowd – although Zara still seemed far more comfortable in this kind of scene than Hermione felt.

The warm summer night stuck to Hermione with the smell of chlorine and the boom of rap, but as it wore on and the level of Coke in her cup sank lower, Hermione felt herself loosening up to a bizarre extent. In fact, it was to so great an extent that Hermione found she didn't remember a thing the following morning, and the alarm clock's blare through her sudden and monumental headache was more than painful.

The first feeling Hermione felt on that second day of school was that of utter panic. She couldn't remember anything at _all_ about the previous night following the scene at the drinks table. It was as if someone had just gone into her mind and extracted the memories, as if that were possible. What if she'd made a complete ass of herself? Why didn't she remember? She'd drank perfectly... normal-tasting... Coke... which Mafalda had described as "a bit sketchy sometimes"... _Dammit, Hermione, how could you be so naïve?_

Hermione hated not having control over her mind. For God's sake, it was her _brain_. If she couldn't rely on her brain, what the hell _could_ she rely on? And if there was something buried in the recesses of her mind of last night, there was no way to retrieve it.

She surveyed herself in the mirror, feeling at least relieved that she'd woken up in her own room, with her own clothes on, still looking vaguely human. The hair... well, the hair was atrocious, but that was anticipated, if it had gone without careful supervision for nine hours.

Hermione groaned. That insistent headache thudded into the back of her head. What did one even _do_ for a hangover? Could it be considered a hangover at all if it wasn't alcohol? She shut her eyes. _I can't believe this is happening._ What a way to start off the school year.

She fumbled for her schedule and assembled her books in her bag, feeling clumsy and heavy-handed. It was still only six thirty, so there was plenty of time for a shower.

When she returned, feeling considerably more like a person, Hermione put her mind back to focus mode. She fixed her bag, got dressed, and deemed her slowly drying hair a hopeless case after spending ten minutes grappling with a hairbrush.

Hermione let out a massive yawn. Her first class that morning was honors-level biology – definitely not a good idea to walk into that class when she wasn't at her best. She tried meditating for a few minutes, but eventually just went down to breakfast, hoping the headache would fade quickly. The noise of the Great Hall seemed louder than yesterday, although that could have just been the voices screaming in her head at her for having been such an idiot as to drink that open cup of Coke.

"Oh. You're awake," Mafalda said, looking relieved. "We thought you'd probably sleep through your alarm..."

Hermione sat down at the table rather harder than necessary and glared around at everyone within a short distance before her eyes fixed on Mafalda. "What exactly happened last night?" she asked in a low voice, sounding a lot more menacing than she'd intended.

Zara looked like she was restraining laughter, which wasn't a good sign – although that might just have been because of the sort-of-terrified look on Mafalda's face at Hermione's deathbed tone of voice. Mafalda replied quickly, "Nothing, nothing. As soon as we noticed your drink was spiked we took you back to your dorm. You were only at the scene for maybe half an hour. Calm down."

"So I didn't make a complete idiot out of myself or say something moronic?" Hermione said.

Zara shrugged. "It was a bit awkward when you didn't recognize Caroline Longbottom," she said, "but nothing really of event happened. Don't stress yourself out over it, Hermione."

Hermione scoffed. Don't stress herself out. As if she could take being _drugged _lightly. "How the hell does that happen?" she said, looking around at the people sitting at their table. "I can't believe that happened! I could have done anything! I could have ruined my life!"

"Well, you didn't," said Zara.

"Believe me, this is low-key compared to some other stuff that … you know, happens," Mafalda said, waving her fork in the air. Hermione raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. 'Some other stuff'? What did that even entail? If alcohol was so widespread – and apparently marijuana, judging by some of the conversations she could overhear from the Huff'n'Puff table – then what else did Hogwarts have hiding in its crevices? Was it just part of rich culture, or something, to waste your body on getting high and having a so-called 'great time' you weren't even going to remember the next day?

Hermione shut her eyes and massaged her eyelids miserably, willing the stabbing pains to recede from her head. "I've got some aspirin upstairs, if you want some," offered Zara, but Hermione shook her head.

"I'm going to get through this," Hermione muttered, "and I'm going to let it hurt like hell so that I remember never to let this happen again."

Mafalda laughed as Hermione pulled a plate towards herself and winced at the grating noise it made.

Her first two classes that day were painful, as the headache persisted, but Hermione focused on the rhythmic repetition of the thuds of pain, which seemed to lessen their effects somehow, and she made it through Biology and French. Break, though, was a different question. As she stepped onto the lift after French, the abrupt drop made everything from breakfast seem to rise up in Hermione's throat, and she suddenly felt very, very sick.

She staggered from the glass elevator. Which way was the bathroom? The place was so unnecessarily huge that trying to find a bathroom would have been like trying to find a golden needle in some overlarge pretentious haystack. Bile burned hot at the back of her throat.

Hermione clutched at her stomach, closing her eyes. Counting to ten did nothing for her. She looked down the hall and saw a dim red EXIT sign, and as if it were water in the desert, she staggered off to it.

She burst through the door into the harsh burn of the bright sunlight – it was a side door to the school, where four large dumpsters sat. Hermione pitched to the side and threw up, and immediately felt like some dark cloud had been lifted from her head, like some parasite living in her stomach had been evicted with her breakfast. She wiped her mouth with relief.

Straightening up slowly, she sighed, and when she turned around she froze still.

Hanging in the air was the bitter tang of cigarette smoke, and it wafted towards her from three burning ends that were in three cultured hands of three very attractive boys.

Her eyes wandered over them, and she swallowed, her heart suddenly going quickly. Excellent – just who she needed to see her hungover: the Head Boy, his intensely unlikeable buddy Malfoy, and a dark, broad kid she didn't know.

"Hermione Granger," said Tom Riddle. His legs were crossed, and he leaned back against the dumpster as if it were a throne, his dark jeans looking positively tragic and his hair in that exact same state of disrepair as it had been the day before.

"Er, sorry about that," Hermione mumbled, her face growing hot. She stuck her hands in the pocket of her fraying jean shorts, wanting to shrink back to hide behind her hair, which frizzed out in its post-shower state. Letting out a halfhearted cough, she suddenly wondered why the hell the Head Boy was smoking a cigarette. That was against school regulations – but then again, so was alcohol, right? What was she going to do, report the entire block of people living in Griffin's Door?

But this was the _Head Boy._ He should have known better. Hermione felt herself getting a reproachful look on her face as her eyes fixed on Riddle's cigarette.

"Too much to drink?" asked the boy Hermione didn't know. He had clear blue eyes and a chaotic shock of black hair.

"Actually, my soda was spiked," Hermione mumbled, and she glared at Abraxas Malfoy as he grinned. "It's not funny!" she said hotly. "I feel terrible."

"Well, would you like a cigarette?" asked Malfoy, holding his out to her.

Hermione stiffened. Her father had worked too hard to quit smoking for that to be funny. "No, actually, I'd rather restrain myself from contracting lung cancer," she said. The three boys exchanged glances, and Riddle yawned, looking up into the blue sky and then back at Hermione.

There was a bit of an awkward silence. Hermione scuffed at the ground with her feet and considered leaving, feeling her indignance at the smoking fade as she reasoned with herself. No use getting angry over it ...

"Hey, look, it'd be great if you didn't say anything about these," Riddle said, gesturing lightly with his cigarette, and as his eyes fixed on hers, Hermione felt the floor swim under her. He was unbelievably good-looking, she found herself thinking in a state of complete distraction. Painfully so. Tragically so. As tragic as his clothes, even. Maybe.

She nodded, without knowing why. Did saying nothing make her an accomplice? Did her letting Zara take a drink make her some sort of accomplice to something else? How on earth had she gotten wrapped up in this type of thing without even _doing _anything? Her headache slowly started to settle back into place, the hammer returning to bang at her skull once again.

"Fantastic," Riddle said. He blew out a stream of smoke, his full lips curved in a perfect 'o', his eyes tantalizing her with a haze-smothered, buried smile. "Oh, right. This is Cygnus Black. Cygnus, Hermione Granger. She rooms over at Griffin's Door. We've got most of the same classes."

"Oh, so you're _smart_," Cygnus said, his blue eyes interested. "Sorry, but why are you over by the Door, then?"

Hermione opened her mouth to retaliate, but she had no retaliation. She had no evidence as to the intelligence of her dorm-mates. She just shrugged. "Why, where am I supposed to be?"

Cygnus shrugged in return; Hermione wasn't sure if he was making fun of her. "The kids up in the tower by Raven Club are usually the smart ones," he said. "That's where Caroline Longbottom was, anyway, before she got to be Head Girl."

Hermione frowned, glancing back to Riddle. She didn't feel comfortable saying his name, for some reason. "But... _you_... you roomed by the Den, right?" she asked. She'd already heard this, of course, but if Riddle were so smart, then why hadn't he picked Raven Club, for all his intellectual peers?

Riddle inclined his head slightly, but made no explanation. A light breeze made his dark hair wave and flicker, and Hermione noticed that pencil behind his ear again. He lifted his cigarette to his lips and sucked in, distracting her.

"Er, I... yeah, all right," Hermione said, shaking herself back to reality. "I need to... go." Her hand flew to the back of her head at a particularly raw ache, and she took a half a step forward, her face twisting up in surprised pain.

"You need aspirin?" Riddle asked, surveying her aggrieved expression. "I've got some in my room, and the nurse's got some for sure."

"No, I -" Hermione started, but she broke off, grimacing. "Shit."

"Yeah, let's get you some aspirin," Riddle said. He stubbed out his cigarette on the dumpster and tossed the butt into the trash, pulling the door open. "I'll see you, Malfoy, Black."

Cygnus and Abraxas both nodded. _Cygnus and Abraxas. _Hermione wondered through the blur of the headache exactly how stuck-up they could possibly make names in the world of the disgustingly wealthy. What had they done, taken a Latin dictionary and turned it to a random page?

Then Riddle's hand was on her shoulder, and Hermione's mind went strangely blank. Weird shivers shot their way over her body, radiating outward from the grip of his fingers. They stepped back into the cool, dark castle. What an odd Head Boy – smoking one second, the perfect gentleman the next, and apparently bored the entire time.

They walked to his room. He slipped inside for a minute and emerged with a half-empty pack of aspirin. The bell rang for lunch as he handed it to her, and they set off for the Great Hall. "Thanks," Hermione muttered. She hated inconveniencing people, especially if it was in the context of them having to help her. How embarrassing.

They talked about homework for a couple of minutes. Then, "Watch out for sleazy guys at those parties," said Riddle, suddenly, without any sort of appropriation for the topic. "It's not like they're rare over by that pool."

Hermione laughed. "Thank you." He was such a pleasant conversationalist, which was bizarre, given his appearance. "And you watch out for lung cancer."

A lazy smile appeared on his face. "I've got it covered," he said, running a hand through his hair. "See you in European History, right?"

She nodded, and as he sidled over to the table on the far right, she made her way to the one on the left. Students streamed through the door, and Hermione gulped down the aspirin as Mafalda and Zara headed towards her, both texting furiously. An idea struck her.

As her friends sat down and tucked away their phones, Hermione said, "Could I borrow one of your mobiles? I want to call someone." After all, the lunch break was the exact same hour back at her old school, and she hadn't had the chance to speak to Harry or Ron yet. Zara handed Hermione her BlackBerry, and Hermione hurried out of the Great Hall, typing in Ron's number on the phone.

It rung a few times before picking up, and Hermione felt a sense of cool relief washing over her as she heard Ron's deep voice say, "Uh, hello?"

"Ron! It's me."

"Ah! 'Mione! Didn't recognize the number, sorry about that. Whose phone are you on?"

"It's this girl named Zara's BlackBerry. How are you? How's school? I can't even _begin_ to express how much I miss London; it's been so odd here..."

"School's fine," Ron said, and Hermione heard Harry's voice in the background say,

"Ask her how the rich asswipes are."

Hermione laughed. "Harry, they aren't _asswipes_. You're terrible. They're actually rather nice, for the most part. Everyone's... very… well-dressed." She looked down at the last few people entering the Great Hall, her eyes brushing over their perfectly matched attire.

"You should've let my mum buy you all the clothes she wanted to," Ron said.

"No, I should not have. I'm perfectly fine with my own clothes, thanks." Though as she looked down at herself, she couldn't help feeling a bit of a stab of insecurity. If even Ron, with his deplorable sense of dress, could have told her she'd be way out of her league here, should she have accepted help from the Weasleys?

"Yeah, yeah," Ron said hurriedly. "Hey, the siblings say hey. Ginny, anyway. Fred and George told me to tell you they never wanted to speak to you again because they didn't get to tell you goodbye, and Percy says something snotty like 'all my regards' or something."

"Great," Hermione chuckled. "Tell Ginny I miss her, tell Fred and George to go stick their heads in one of those fake trash cans they're selling, and tell Percy that I thank His Highness." She paused. "Just kidding. Don't tell him that. Tell him thank you." Hermione smiled, and then let out a noise of frustration she hadn't realized she'd been restraining. "Oh, Ron – you can't even _imagine_ how much I miss you and Harry. This place is like a different world. Like a different time period or something."

"We miss you too," Ron said. "This place isn't the same without you, though of course Ernie MacMillan's right happy because now he's got a shot at first in the class."

Hermione scowled. Ernie MacMillan had always been too self-important about his study habits for her taste – honestly, no one wanted to listen to him talk endlessly about his work. Even Hermione understood that. _That should have been my spot. _"Great," she deadpanned. "Great for him."

"Oi, give me the phone," Hermione heard Harry say, and then some static as a wrestling match entailed. Eventually Harry's voice, sharper and slightly more tenor, rang through the phone. "So, I hope there's no one who can match your grades over there," he said, "otherwise the entirety of bloody England might have to cower in our houses, am I right?"

Hermione sighed, pulling at her hair as she leaned against the stone wall. "The Head Boy and Head Girl here are both extremely dedicated," she said. "The Head Boy especially. He's taking the same number of classes as I am."

She heard a sort of disbelieving splutter from the other end. "But you're taking, what, eighty classes?" Harry scoffed.

"Eleven, and so is he."

"I'll be damned," said Harry. "What's his name? Are you two going to have some sort of great intellectual romance or something?"

Hermione laughed. "I don't think he's my type. He's nice and everything, but he's a bit... edgy for me."

"How edgy can he be, with eleven classes to deal with?"

"Things here are different," Hermione said, not really knowing how to explain it otherwise. Even she didn't really get how the same type of boy who took eleven very difficult classes could be one of those guys who smoked out by the dumpsters. "Very different. It's almost not bad being here in the first place – it's sort of interesting, you know? Observing all the rich-and-famous."

"Must be," said Harry, and he paused for a second. "They're not treating you badly, are they? You know, because of... of financial things?"

Hermione heard another scuffle as Ron grabbed the phone. "If they're messing with you about that, I'll come over there and introduce them to my fists," Ron said.

"They don't actually know, yet, about the scholarship and all," Hermione told him, with a secret eye-roll her eyes. She could take care of herself, thank you very much. "Only four students know, and they've all been quite nice about it. I'm not worrying about it much, honestly – can you put me on speakerphone?"

She heard the receiver change a little. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you two about last night. It was insane. They have these crazy parties, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and – well, where I room -"

Hermione broke off. Explaining how weirdly segregated the rooming was would be a pain. So she just said, "In any case, there was a party by the _private pool_ – yes, there's a private pool – and there were about fifty students, and I met a few people who were sons or daughters of international corporations. It was surreal." She considered for a second. "Even more so, given that they were all drunk."

"Oh, were you, were you?" said Ron, his voice grinning.

"Don't be stupid. I didn't … er, well, actually … they were all drinking these mixed drinks, and I did pick up a spiked Coke."

There was silence from the other end. Then, raucous laughter. "Oh, go on!" said one of them. Hermione couldn't tell which. "That's priceless. Please tell me you did something stupid."

Hermione scowled, though a smile was threatening to break out on her face. "No, I didn't do anything stupid, supposedly," she said, "although I can't remember any of it. My friend Mafalda says she and Zara just took me back to my dorm after I started acting strange."

More light chuckling, and then, "Well, isn't that fancy," said Ron. "You've got a _dorm_ and everything. What is this, university?"

"Might as well be," Hermione said. "The classes are really excellent; it's nice finally to be challenged in a Linguistics course, anyway."

"And how's Economics?" Harry asked. "Your favorite class."

She laughed. "Yes, that's going well. The teacher's a bit condescending, but I hope my essay sobers him up. It's a bit... overzealous."

"Let me guess – five more pages than necessary?" said Ron.

"I'm guessing three," Harry added.

"Three," said Hermione, and she heard Harry cheer in response, and then a bit of a punching noise, and then more scuffling. She rolled her eyes, smiling hopelessly. She wished she were back in the plain grey courtyard of the London school with Harry and Ron. With Ginny. With Luna Lovegood, that slightly eccentric girl who wanted to be a lepidopterist when she grew up. With Neville Longbottom, who Hermione assumed was some cousin of Caroline's or something – they were a very prominent family in the shipping industry. No doubt intertwined somehow with VoldeMart, Hermione thought darkly, although that was just an assumption. She knew there were a few big names who wanted nothing to do with VoldeMart – maybe the Longbottoms were one such family. She liked Neville immensely; she wouldn't want to associate him mistakenly with that stupid company.

"I've got to go eat," Hermione said, "but I'll call you again as soon as something happens or I get the chance."

"Yes," Ron said. "Do that. Very soon. And tell us when we can get up there to visit you, yeah?"

Hermione grimaced. "Sure, though why you'd want to visit is a mystery to me."

"Isn't it pretty?" came a girl's voice – presumably Ginny, although it could have been Luna.

"Well, yes," Hermione admitted. "Gorgeous, actually. But I'd rather come back to London to visit you all."

"Whatever it is, it better be soon," Harry said.

"I'll talk to you soon," she said, and after they had all made their double and triple goodbyes, she pressed the End Call button with a satisfied sigh. The aspirin had kicked in, the headache was gone, and she'd finally spoken to her two best friends for the first time since she'd had to make this transfer. Things looked up.

oOo

The workload increased after Hermione started the Linear Algebra course. It was difficult, but she found it fascinating, so she didn't mind working on it for several hours at a time. She spent the most part of the first weekend doing homework for her various classes, although she did have enough time to take some of Saturday night off and go down to the pool again. This time she didn't drink a thing.

She felt like she'd almost assimilated well, except for that unbreakable glass ceiling that seemed to exist between her and these manufactured-lookbook-mannequin types. It was not uncommon to overhear people discussing obscure designers and summer homes in America. Still, though – the students weren't unfriendly. They certainly weren't cold to her just because she was a new student, one who didn't discuss things like the newest line of Carolina Herrera dresses and what the climate was like in the Florida Keys. The fact that she could help them in certain subjects made that all the better, as well as the fact that still no one knew that she was on scholarship.

Apparently, Practical Applications of Life Skills entailed talking about how sex and drugs and alcohol were all terrible for you and would ruin your life. Hermione thought this ironic to the point of physical pain – did the teacher even have any idea what went on at the pool? – but it was probably some type of legal requirement, and it was essentially an excuse for all the students to talk to each other the entire time. In Hermione's opinion, people who wanted to do drugs and drink alcohol and have sex would, and those who didn't want to wouldn't, and that was that.

The boundaries between the rooming were so oddly stringent, and yet many friendships crossed rooming borders. Mafalda's connections were truly impressive, Hermione grew to realize. Mafalda said she eventually wanted a job in government, so it was understandable that she'd be a good networker. She had friends in Raven Club and Huff'n'Puff, and even a few of the girls in Slither's Den associated with Mafalda, though the Den girls usually tended to keep to themselves.

Hermione wondered if the Den was some sort of weird cult or something. The girls were so cliquey, and the boys were so similar in dress – even more than the preppy boys in Griffin's Door, who didn't exactly lend themselves to variation. In any case, Hermione sort of wondered what they did down there in that classic-looking lounge.

Zara was more than slightly boy-crazy, Hermione had come to realize. The girl had developed sizeable crushes on several of the more attractive boys of their year, including Andrew Smith, Neil Fletchley, Gavin Finnegan, and, of course, the lingering crush on Tom Riddle. Hermione wondered if it were prudent to have so many romantic interests at once. It seemed like it'd be a lot of work.

Hermione had grown to wonder about Riddle. While her own bag was so close to bursting, Riddle didn't even carry around his textbooks. Moreover, though he had a pencil living behind his ear, it rarely touched itself to paper. He did not take notes. He never even wrote down his assignments. The only time he lazily removed the pencil from his ear was when they were writing something in class to turn in, and Hermione caught a glance of his writing one time and was astounded. He had flowing cursive script, like he was planning to go into font design for a living. He never answered a question wrong. He never seemed confused. It was actually pretty damn annoying that he was her competition.

oOo

Hermione sighed and copied down the chart on hybrid orbitals as the bell rang. Slughorn's jolly voice rang out over the small class. "Make sure you have that essay written on the varying degrees of tetrahedral structures for Friday!" Hermione scribbled it down in her planner and stuffed it away, standing up. She'd become acquainted with the castle after a week. It had stopped feeling like a prison, anyway, and started feeling almost like a home.

Time for Economics. Merrythought would surely have those essays graded by now, unless he was one of those infernally slow types Hermione could never tolerate.

She started up the stairs, but Tom Riddle's voice stopped her. Her heart flopped over its next beat.

"Did Merrythought say he'd get those essays back to us?" he asked, as if they'd been thinking the exact same thing.

"I don't know. I think he said something about trying to finish them. Is he a slow grader?"

"Average," Riddle said as they emerged from the stairwell. "If you really want a slow grader, try my Political Science teacher. Damn."

Hermione sighed. "I detest slow graders. I feel as if they're getting paid enough to do their work promptly."

"Getting paid too much, if you ask me," snorted Riddle, pressing the elevator button. "Especially if they take a month to grade one set of papers."

She smiled a bit, then, at that, and tried not to look at Riddle, because his appearance was quickly becoming a point of distraction, and she didn't want to ruin the good start she'd made on the year by developing a pointless crush on some bizarrely cute, strangely nice, undeniably intelligent bad boy.

oOo

Riddle looked down at the paper. Full marks - like that had been unexpected. He smirked and flipped the essay over, stretching himself out. Merrythought finished passing out the papers and strode back to the front of the class. "Now," said the Professor, "I found that there was at least a mention of VoldeMart in most of your papers, so I thought we'd take the familiar subject and address two different points of view."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. Did he mean a debate?

"I've typed up two different essays, and I'm going to screen them on this projector," Merrythought said. "They take polar opposite stances, and both the writers are from this class. Both essays were, admittedly, a bit long, but I thought they were worth reading, and the issues raised by the discussion of this corporation are useful. We'll take ten minutes to read them both – just a light skim; we'll debate it in more detail, if you all would like."

The teacher brushed back his curly blond hair and pressed the 'on' button on the projector. Riddle immediately recognized the opening sentence of the essay on the left: _When opportunity knocks, one should not waste time focusing on the number or frequency of the knocks, or any other such pedantic issue, but instead should move past petty technicalities to embrace the opportunity beyond the barrier._ His first sentence, longer than usual, more analogy than usual – but he thought a certain measure of over-enthusiasm was appropriate, given his background on the subject. The other paper, though – Riddle read it with caution and with steadily rising fury.

The paper was not just _against_ VoldeMart – it had a tone that was scathing, condescending, and utterly superior, with insults liberally mixed in. It sounded _exactly_ like Caroline Longbottom's writing – and of course she would write something like that, given her family's involvement on the boycott of shipped goods from Malaya and Tonga and all those useless Indonesian countries that had nothing better to do than give slave labor to the first world. Riddle twirled his pencil in his fingers, letting his anger stream out through his rapidly moving digits. Well, if it came to debate, there would be no problem with Longbottom. She was readily flustered, good writer though she was, and Riddle couldn't see her being an obstacle.

He reread the essay a couple times before the ten minutes were up. Then Merrythought said, "Would anyone care to address some points?"

There was silence. Tom raised an eyebrow and looked around.

"No one?" asked Merrythought tentatively. "I thought they were both thought-provoking... I mean, if you all disagree, we can move on to today's lesson. I just thought that -"

He broke off, his eyes finding purchase on the Granger girl, whose hand was in the air, as was so frequent. Tom folded his hands, wondering about what she'd have to say on the subject. Granger certainly wasn't afraid to let her opinions known, that was for sure. Was her father was a shareholder in VoldeMart? Perhaps he wasn't affiliated – Granger could stem from one of those annoying companies, like the Longbottoms', who were so self-righteous they sought to wage war on another corporation. How mature. Then again – Riddle didn't think he'd ever heard the name 'Granger' in the business world, and he guessed that if the girl were to have a stance on the issue, it wouldn't be influenced by the opinions of her parents. She didn't seem like the type.

He was surprised, though, when she said, "Professor, I think every essential point in one essay can be found contradicted in the other. There's not much to debate when it's already written out." Her tone was almost apologetic, but other students were nodding and looking relieved. Riddle wondered if they agreed, or if they just didn't want to have to say anything.

Merrythought frowned and sighed. "Alright, then, is the general consensus that we move on?" he asked, a bit of disappointment in his voice. "I hope you did get something out of reading the essays, though. Very well-organized thoughts. Very good arguments, both of you. You know who you are."

Tom yawned. Yes, he did know who he was – and he knew that the writer of the other paper, whether it was that idiot Longbottom or someone else, should watch their steps very, very carefully.

oOo

Hermione gritted her teeth. Whoever had written that other essay had been so disgustingly unsympathetic to... to _anyone_, as well as being overtly complimentary to the company. One would think that the writer was getting sponsored by VoldeMart itself or something. Oh, right, but they'd oh-so-conveniently forgotten to mention that the workers in Uzbekistan and the Azerbaijani region were, in large part, children as young as _eight _who made twelve pence an _hour _to pick cotton. The writer had also conveniently misplaced the section about how VoldeMart's clipped costs in their health care plan over in the United States left their employees with a pathetic partial insurance, leaving the US Congress to have useless debates over a bill that might _possibly_ solve the problem. And another thing they forgot – how half of their goods were so low-quality that they were rated by Business Daily to be legally substandard.

Hermione tried to focus on the lesson, but now her thoughts were dispersed. How were her mother and father doing? Did they miss their old jobs at all?

She borrowed Zara's Macbook Air that evening and wrote short messages to the both of her parents, updating them on her circumstances. She also asked her mother how the internship was going – she'd started an internship at some firm while finishing up law school, under the dangerous assumption that she would pass the bar. It was at a fairly prestigious firm, anyway, and Hermione was interested to know what it was like. Hermione sometimes thought she might like to be a lawyer, but her explosive anger never failed to convince her otherwise.

Hermione sighed and rolled over in her bed, staring into the darkness of her spacious dorm. The moon outside was a silver disk; the stars were closer than they'd ever been in London. She missed her friends, she missed what had been home, and she missed her old school, where there had been no politics and no judgment and no worry. She shut her tired eyes, trying to ignore the distant thud of music. She needed her sleep, after all.

Tom drew a small line from one box to the other, connecting his flow chart, and then he placed his pencil carefully behind his ear and put his feet up on his desk, his long legs stretching out. Several new projects, all designed to clip the useless and strengthen the profitable, lay on that piece of paper on his light wood desk. On the back of the paper was a personal message to Abraxas' father, Celsus, and Cygnus' father, Pollux. It was not an unpleasant message. After all, Riddle could not afford to lose the admiration of the older men in the corporation – morale was an important factor of such a tight-knit administration, with him as hidden in the center as he was. The vital thing was that they answer to him readily, and as long as they were doing that, Riddle supposed there was no problem.

He folded the sheet of paper and slid it into an envelope, and he wrote on the front – _To Fax._

Now to find Abraxas. That was never an easy task, not on Wednesday nights. Riddle wished for about the millionth time that he himself had a cellphone, but the one he'd ordered wouldn't be arriving for another week. And he'd never had anything shipped to his summer address. No, that wasn't possible, although it had been infuriating to him that he'd even had to stay _there_ a summer when he was already over eighteen. Riddle's lip curled in distaste. _Release of funds._ What was that even supposed to mean? He should have been able to withdraw his own money; he should have been able to rent a flat in London to stay over the summer; he shouldn't have had to return to that disgusting shithole –

He stood up, the chair leaning back and resting against his bedframe as if it were tired. Riddle slid it back into place, lifting a pale hand to his hair.

He found his reflection in the mirror and deemed it satisfactory. His features were most agreeable to him; it was easier to control people when they felt inclined to follow in the first place, and a part of the brain responded to physical appearance with an instinctive reaction of trust or mistrust. Straight nose, regal jawline, serious eyes, gently curved cheekbones, deceivingly messy hair. All part of the plan. Everything was part of the plan, from his impression on someone who saw him in the streets to his graduating the first in his class. Things would go his way.

First, though, he needed to find that infernal Malfoy.

He walked briskly to the dungeons. Head Boy rounds didn't start until nine in the evening, so he had about half an hour to find Abraxas. Frustrating, really, that he wasn't there at Riddle's every beck and call. If only there were a way to summon him somehow, like a personal PA system, like he could just press a button and the boy would materialize. Riddle smirked at the thought.

Angus and Teddy moved away from the door, and Tom walked in.

Yes, it was loud that night. And he was not surprised to see that the stops were being pulled on the drug use. He was almost tempted to drop by that side table and get some snow, but he knew that Yaxley would save him some anyway. He could wait, and people didn't have to know about what he did. Though if they ended up knowing, they'd keep quiet.

He opened the door into the dark room, taking in the surroundings with a bored eye.

Riddle breathed in deeply, attempting to drown out the noises surrounding him. The air smelled like something between sweat and smoke, and his lip curled in distaste as he surveyed the dance floor. Sex, sensuality, intimacy – they were not something to be paraded in front of everyone. Where was Abraxas, then – buried in the middle of that pack? Riddle sure as hell wasn't going to slide his way through _that_, wasn't going to bother to part the cretins like a veritable red sea of overactive hormone levels. His nose wrinkled with disgust.

He looked around for Cygnus Black, instead. Cygnus was less impulsive, quieter, more inclined to be reasonable, even if he was unsettlingly secretive. Riddle often saw something in Cygnus that reminded him of himself, which wasn't bad, just... just something to keep an eye on, perhaps. Transparency was vital, to a degree. Riddle saw the world as a one-way mirror – he expected to see everything about everyone else, while they saw nothing of him.

Yes; there was Cygnus, in the corner. Riddle walked over to him, and the boy stood up. Cygnus was just a little shorter than he, at six feet exactly, but Riddle had a way of feeling far taller than everyone around him no matter their actual statures. He looked down into Black's eyes until the other looked away, and Riddle lifted the envelope. Black took it, inclining his head.

Riddle said, "Abraxas."

Black nodded again in understanding, and he waited until Riddle left before he sat down again, slowly, blue eyes trained on Riddle's receding back.

Tom was glad to get away from the so-called music. To rid his ears of the sounds, he ran through a vinyl recording of Rachmaninoff in his room before the rounds started. Far more distinguished stuff, he was sure, than any other student his age would prefer.

He had been considering the recruiting front for a while. What type of person would he hire to head his administration? He didn't trust anyone he had to be his second-in-command, that was for sure. Cygnus seemed a more likely candidate than most, with his steady hand and above-average intelligence, but something about the boy set Riddle on edge, and that was unacceptable. Whoever he chose had to be _perfect. _Abraxas was a swift no – Malfoys acted with notorious impetuousness, and Abraxas was too caustic to be able to deal with the media in any satisfactory manner.

Once the older generation faded, though, leaving Riddle alone, he needed someone. A business partner. Someone who trusted him. Someone he could blame when everything inevitably went wrong. After all, VoldeMart was an exhaustible company, and Riddle knew that – it was like a fire in a hearth with limited fuel, like a man with his head in an airtight container with oxygen seeping away. A disaster waiting to happen, really, though one with such beautiful benefits for a sacred few. When things declined, though, he wouldn't be the one to take blame, but someone would be. Someone who knew what they were doing, someone who would be forced to shoulder consequences – and Hogwarts wasn't a terrible place to start looking.

He couldn't be blamed for anything. Not if he would be immortal, preserved for all eternity as the perfect man in the history books. A magnetic, inspiring leader, businessman turned politician. Perfect from the start, yet self-motivated. Not born into what he was, but fated to be so. Created. Destined.

**x**

**x**

* * *

**Tom Riddle: see 'humility', page 289.**

** JAYKAY HE'S A SELF-IMPORTANT EVIL TOOLBAG! :D er wut**

** Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter. If it pleases you, drop me a line. If it doesn't please you, drop me a line.**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**


	4. Expecto Petronas

**Hey everyone! I'm back and excited to be so. :D Thanks so much for your support:**

**The general girl, xXBlueDazeXx, loupyloupowell, Waldemart, rusalka, Pokethat, Lil Mizz SunShyne X x, cosettex, ber1719, Night Aurora, thesomnambulist, CsillanRose, lilahcharlotte, annabug, Vinwin, boycottingwinter, MissImpossible, KeitarosKeroNeko, Kako, Audrie, AudioIrrelevance, Anna on the Horizon, BooklvrAnnie, CupcakeChan95, ClaireReno, LowLevelMidge, Lukro (tehehe), aaand sweet-tang-honney!**

**Without too much ado – and with apologies for the late update – I give you chapter four. I only got over my writer's block for this today, which is why it has been a long time comin'. But I'm not abandoning it!**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

**Love,**

**Speechwriter.**

* * *

"Hey!"

Hermione copied down the last note on the board, trying to ignore the voice in her right ear. Honestly – if her classmates were just going to talk to each other the entire period, could they at least be quiet about it?

"Hey!" repeated the voice, and Hermione rounded on the source, only to discover that she was the intended target of the word. Oh.

"Er, yes?" Hermione asked. Why on earth would the glamorous, aloof Iris Parkinson want to talk to her? It couldn't be about homework – they never had homework in European History. Next to Practical Applications of Life Skills, it was the easiest class Hermione had ever taken.

Iris flicked some blond hair away from her perfectly-lined eyes, trading a glance with the pretty black girl next to her, who had hoop earrings that could have doubled as hula hoops. "Josiah and I were just wondering," Iris said carefully, "where on earth you got your clothes."

Hermione looked down at her ensemble. Today was not a good day – she was wearing too-big black pants, her almost-dead boots, and a red plaid shirt she'd had since she was fourteen. "Nowhere special," she said with supreme nonchalance, fighting her defiant blush and intending to turn back to her notes, but Iris' voice stopped her.

"Your dress sense is so... like, it's really _interesting_," she mused.

The urge to laugh flooded Hermione, but she looked back at Iris with grave seriousness in her eyes. "Really," Hermione said.

"Yeah," agreed Josiah. "It's so... alien. Do you remember any of the brands?"

Hermione shrugged, not even trying to keep the irony from her voice. "No big names."

"So, like, boutiques?" asked Iris, seemingly confused.

Hermione pummeled back her laughter again. "I guess that's one way you could put it," she said, her voice strangled. She felt the intense urge to call Harry and Ron right that second.

Josiah sat up a little straighter. "Oh my God, we're being so rude. My name's Josiah Zabini. This is Iris Parkinson."

Hermione nodded. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"Yeah, we know. You're the smart one. So, like, this is your first year, right?" asked Iris, giving a vague glance up at the front of the classroom like she was considering listening. Professor Binns, the history teacher, was lecturing, but for all the attention the students were giving him, he might as well have been a ghost. The half of the class that weren't whispering to each other stared vacantly into space.

"Yes, that's right," Hermione sighed, giving up hope of trying to take notes. She couldn't even hear Binns' timid voice over the buzz of conversation.

"Do you love it? I loved my first year here," said Josiah. "Of course, I was already connected and everything... still, though – nowhere else is like Hogwarts."

Hermione nodded. "Definitely not." Zabini – that name sounded familiar. Something to do with VoldeMart's ad campaigns? Something like that... and Parkinson – well, they were one of the company's biggest shareholders. Everyone knew that.

Iris asked, "What school did you go to before here?"

"Inner London."

"Oh my _God,_" said Josiah, blank dread stamped across her face. "_Public_ school. Oh my _God._"

"It was fine," Hermione said curtly, restraining herself from saying something far more snappish. Then again, though – these girls didn't know any better. Maybe they thought all public schoolers were uncivilized. Complete with Cockney accents, or something. Hermione's lips quivered at the idea of Percy Weasley speaking with a Cockney accent.

Iris shrugged. "I don't know. Didn't you just feel... like, I don't know, _stranged_?"

"You mean estranged?" Hermione chuckled.

Iris grinned sheepishly. "Sure." She waved a hand. "It's just... middle-class kids are just different from us. They can't really understand, you know? Having your family under discrutiny, all that..." Iris and Josiah sighed in unison, as if on cue.

Hermione didn't even bother to correct the word 'scrutiny'. She hadn't really thought of what it would be like having media haranguing her family. It would probably be pretty annoying, come to think of it. "I guess," she said.

"What does your family do, anyway?" asked Josiah. "I haven't heard the name 'Granger' before."

"Law," Hermione answered instantly, not sure why she was lying. Shouldn't she have been proud to be who she was? Shouldn't she have held her head high and proclaimed, _I'm a scholarship student_? It was brilliant to be smart enough for a full scholarship.

Still, though – she knew these girls wouldn't see it that way. They'd see her as a lower class of person.

Perhaps if they had been easier to hate, she would have declared it. She would have held her head high and said, "I padded my shoes with newspaper when I was seven years old." She would have said, "I know what it's like to rely on food stamps." She would have put her most humbling characteristic on display for the world to see, only caring about the opinions of the people who were nice to her.

Too bad the world didn't work that way. These two girls seemed friendly enough – Hermione felt inclined to accommodate them. She didn't want to estrange – or, rather, 'strange' – two people she'd barely even met. Besides, what good would it do spreading around that she was on scholarship?

"Law," repeated Iris, nodding appreciatively. "I've been thinking of going into law, actually."

Josiah laughed. "Sure. With your vocabulary, it's only a matter of time before you mix up the words 'acquitted' and 'convicted'."

Hermione chortled as Iris turned a delicate shade of pink and let out a dignified 'hmph'. The bell rang, signaling the end of the last class of the day, but it took Professor Binns a few seconds to stop talking. Hermione left the room with Iris and Josiah, who had launched into a discussion of the more attractive boys in the grade. Hermione was thankful for this – it meant that they weren't talking about clothes or money, at least, a boon in itself.

"Nick Abbott is, like, a seven," Iris said.

Josiah scoffed. "Oh my _God;_ no, he is _not_. He's as skinny as a _broom handle_."

"So I like skinny guys," Iris sniffed. "What's it to you?"

Josiah rounded on an alarmed Hermione. "Come on, help me out here," she said, her dark eyes full of disbelief. "Nick Abbott? Oh my God."

Hermione shrugged. She'd never really been surrounded by girls who talked about the male population so blatantly. Ginny had had other friends to yammer about boys with, and Luna – well, Hermione wasn't even really sure what Luna had going on inside her head. "He's... nice, I suppose," Hermione said. "And he's smart."

"Oh, _that's_ it!" Josiah said, a smirk suddenly spreading across her lips. She turned back to Iris with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "You like him because he's _smart!_"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Iris said.

"Like you don't know," Josiah laughed.

Hermione was utterly mystified, looking from one girl to the other for some sort of clue. "Um... what?" she said.

"_Nothing,_" Iris said a bit too loudly, just as Josiah said,

"Just that this one's had an ongoing fling with Mr. First-in-the-Class since last year."

Hermione almost felt embarrassed for Iris, who was now giving Josiah a death glare, her sea-blue eyes filled with disbelief. "Shut up," hissed Iris. "There are other people in this hallway, you know."

"Oh, come on, Hermione's not going to tell anyone," scoffed Josiah. "Besides, it's not like it's a _bad_ thing, getting with Tom Riddle." But, as they stepped onto the lift, Josiah seemed a bit worried that she'd offended Iris, who was staring straight ahead, a foul mood seeming to slip over her. Hermione felt intrusive – these girls were obviously such good friends; what if she was disrupting their dynamic or something? And weirder was considering the idea of Iris being with Tom Riddle...

A bizarrely disappointed feeling overcame Hermione as she thought about it, but she shoved that disappointment aside. What, had she thought she had a chance with him or something? Just because they were on similar levels of intellect? No; there was no point getting crushes on people like _that_.

After a couple seconds of unbearable silence in the elevator, Hermione decided to help the uncomfortably-shifting Josiah. "If I were fooling around with Tom Riddle, I wouldn't mind telling anyone," she said, masterfully masking unease. It was, of course, a total lie. Hermione intended never to disperse the details of her love life to anyone. But for all intents and purposes...

Iris glanced at Hermione. "He is gorgeous, isn't he?" she mumbled, seeming to perk up a bit.

Josiah gave Hermione a _thank-you_ glance. "Utterly."

"Almost unbelievably," added Hermione.

Iris sighed. "Sorry. It's just... I don't want anyone to know this time. I mean, like, the whole school already thinks I'm a slut."

"Oh my _God_, that's not true," Josiah sighed.

"I'm not just trying to make you contracept me," Iris said. "It's true. Everyone thinks I'm a whore."

_Contradict,_ thought Hermione. _Contradict._ But she said, "It's alright."

"How is that alright?" Iris said. They got out of the lift, and Hermione followed them down the left side of the corridor unthinkingly.

"People might _think_ you're a slut, but if you aren't actually, doesn't mean you should take it as some sort of grave offense." She paused. "And... I don't know. It's all a little silly, isn't it? Making other people's private lives your business?" Hermione sighed, glancing over at Iris. "In any case, maybe if you're finding yourself worrying about it so much, you shouldn't get with any guys for a while, wait for things to settle down."

There was a pause as the other two girls mulled over her words, and then, "That's, like, really good advice," Iris said. "Wow. I'm terrible at giving advice."

Hermione shrugged as they started down a set of steps. "Wait," she said, "where are we going?"

"The Den," said Josiah, like it was obvious. "Your room's near there, right?"

"Uh..." Well, this was awkward. "No. No, it's not."

A look of comprehension dawned on Iris's face. "Josiah, she's, like, a genius," she said. "You're probably by Raven Club, right?"

"Griffin's Door, actually," said Hermione.

Twin raised-eyebrow expressions appeared on the girls' faces. "Oh," said Josiah after a second. "You know, I wouldn't have guessed it. You're not as obnoxious as most of them."

"Or as in-your-face," added Iris. Hermione had a private chuckle at that one – if Harry and Ron had heard them say that...

"You know who's cool, though?" Josiah said. "That Mafalda girl. She's over by the Door, too."

Hermione brightened. "Mafalda's great! She's been helping me and Zara get settled."

"Zara?"

"She's a new student," Hermione said. "You might have seen her – she's tall and black and really gorgeous."

Josiah thought for a second. "You know what?" she said. "You three should come to the Den tomorrow."

"Yeah!" agreed Iris. "That would be fun. Fridays at the Den aren't famous for nothing."

Hermione wasn't so sure that was a good idea, but before she could protest, her plans were made for her. She hoped Mafalda and Zara wouldn't get mad, and then she remembered that she had homework to do, and she got irritated with herself for frittering away valuable time doing frivolous things like making friends.

oOo

"So, I hear you'll be making an appearance at our humble little Den tonight," said Tom. Granger had seated herself next to him in Organic Chemistry, and they'd both finished their worksheets, so he figured small talk was an acceptable avenue.

Hermione gave a bit of a laugh. "How on earth did that get around to you so quickly?"

Tom shrugged. "I have sources." Namely, Iris, who seemed to like Granger a lot. Riddle thought this was more than a bit bizarre, given that he couldn't think of two more different girls – but there you were; opposites attracted, apparently.

"Oh, you're so mysterious," Hermione said sarcastically. Riddle nodded slowly in dead-serious agreement.

She was a lot like other girls, even if she was a genius. Liked to hear the sound of her own voice, that was for sure. Probably thought he enjoyed her company a lot more than he actually did. It was just refreshing that, half the time she opened her mouth, what came out was vaguely entertaining; the same couldn't be said for most of the girls in Hogwarts.

Tom sighed and held back a yawn. He hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep the night before, not that he was going to let the tiredness show on his face –

"You look tired," Granger said, her voice critical.

He blinked. She'd noticed. _Odd._ "Oh?"

"Yes," she said. "Very tired, actually. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Riddle replied, scrutinizing Granger's expression. He'd become familiar with that look – it meant she was analyzing something.

She probably knew she was dead clever, too. Which just made it obnoxious.

Girls irked Riddle, as a general rule. Their interest in the useless and the temporary infringed on his personal beliefs – to be specific, the belief that if something wasn't worth anything in the long run, it wasn't worth anything at all. Even this girl, intelligent though she was, was so seemingly preoccupied with his current state of health, so damn interested in this tiny fragment of conversation. People were so easy to distract that Riddle almost felt embarrassed on their behalf. Half the time he felt like he was the only lucid human being in a sea of drones... perhaps this Granger drone was just particularly well-engineered.

He shrugged, wanting her to stop that piercing stare. "I didn't get much sleep last night," he said.

"Why?"

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Granger, do you really want to know? I assure you it wasn't schoolwork."

He saw something click into place in her expression. Hopefully, she'd fallen for the bait, assuming it had something to do with drugs or sex – which, of course, was completely wrong. He'd been busy with correspondence to a few factory owners in Uzbekistan – the using-seven-year-old-children-to-pick-cotton thing had been very poorly conceived. And, come to think of it, very poorly concealed. If they were going to do things that were against every international statute, couldn't they at least keep it quiet?

"Oh," Granger replied blankly. She looked like she was unable to tear her eyes from him – not that that was an unfamiliar feeling for Riddle... her eyes were just unnaturally shrewd, their hazel depths glittering with actual perception rather than blind lust. Riddle found he would much rather have preferred the blind lust. "Listen, Riddle," she sighed, "why do you do all that... stuff?"

"Stuff?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. The drug stuff."

Riddle glanced around to see if anyone had heard. Then he narrowed his eyes at Granger. "Jesus, Granger, could you be a bit louder? I think Slughorn might not have heard you -"

"I'm not kidding." She didn't look like it, either. Her stubborn chin was up in defiance, her lips pursed in utter condescension. "Why do you _need_ it? If anyone catches you, you could be in a lot of trouble, and it's terrible for you."

Riddle sighed. "Don't you worry, Granger, no one's going to catch me," he said quietly, inserting as much mockery into his voice as possible. "I've got it under control."

"You know, that's what everyone says when they're addicted," Granger replied coolly, her pencil drawing absentminded circles on her worksheet.

"I suppose you know this from experience?" Riddle said. "You know, since you're so obviously entrenched in wrongdoings of every nature -"

Her pencil dropped, and her head snapped to face him, anger glowing in her eyes. Riddle almost drew back from her in alarm as she hissed, "Maybe I do."

Riddle got over the initial shock quickly. That was interesting. Granger had been addicted to drugs? Or maybe her friends? Or her family? Well, it was no use having her mad at him – especially since she knew about his habits, which weren't widely known outside the Den. He put an expression of utmost repentance onto his face and coated his voice in honey. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't know -"

But he was startled to be interrupted by a very unimpressed Granger. "I know you didn't know, but that doesn't give you a right to be completely insensitive." She turned away from him, her voluminous hair swishing a bit, like a lion's mane.

Riddle suppressed a derisive laugh. He'd never met anyone more self-righteous. For the sake of the argument, though, he had to appear like he cared deeply about her distress. "Hey," he said, but she didn't look at him. "Hey, come on." He placed a hand on her shoulder, and he could see her freeze. Oh, that was satisfying. "I didn't mean to insult you personally, or anything."

The bell rang, and Granger shrugged off his hand, gathered up her things, and strode towards the door. Riddle sat for a second in silence, then followed. He was embarrassed to have to chase after her, but what if she were the type who held a grudge? What if she were the type to report him to a teacher? He hadn't considered it a real threat before now, but with that frosty air hanging around her he couldn't be sure –

What a nuisance, to have to _worry_ about something.

She wasn't responding to his sincerest apologies, either. What the hell? Even with his most practiced innocent-Head-Boy face – the one that had managed to tame all his teachers from the minute he answered a question – she didn't even seem to be listening to him.

He could try a different tack, of course...

Riddle hurried after her down the hallway. "Hermione," he called, and _that_ got her attention. She stopped and slowly turned to face him, skepticism written all over her face. The other students streamed past them, heading up the stairs, leaving them alone. _Perfect._

He walked over, not letting his eyes stray from hers, his hands in his pockets.

She was quite short. He hadn't realized it before, but now that he was barely a foot from her, he realized that the distance he had to look down to meet her eyes was substantial.

"What is it?" she said.

"Just don't want you mad at me, that's all," Riddle said quietly, shrugging. "Come on, Hermione. You're a smart girl. You really think I was_ trying_ to antagonize you? Why the hell would I do that?"

She looked down at the ground, letting out what appeared to be an exasperated sigh. "I... well, I'm just... a bit sensitive about all that type of stuff."

Riddle put a finger under her chin and lifted it so she was looking into his eyes again. All of a sudden, there was a vacant look on her face, one blended with shock. Riddle nearly sighed with relief. _Took long enough._ "Hey, that's no problem," he said. "Look, I won't joke about it anymore, okay?"

She nodded slowly, her hazel eyes transfixed on his. He lowered his hand from her face, and she swallowed, glancing over her shoulder. "All right," she seemed to decide. "Let's get to class."

She started up the stairs. Riddle let the smirk slide onto his face.

oOo

"I don't know how you did it, Hermione," sighed Mafalda, checking her eyeliner in Hermione's mirror. "They don't _let_ people into the Den."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Sure they don't. I bet they all think they're so cool and elitist, with their passes, and their lounge, and their drugs..."

Zara laughed. "Well, it'll be something different. Oh my _God_, what if Tom Riddle's there? I might have a fit."

Hermione and Mafalda exchanged a glance. "He said he'd be there," Hermione said.

Zara whirled around. "Are you serious?"

"Don't hyperventilate," Mafalda said drily. "Come on, let's get down there."

They left Hermione's room, heading down for the dungeons. Zara sighed. "I can't believe you talk to Tom Riddle on a _regular basis_, Hermione."

Hermione restrained a bit of a smile. "He's quite nice. I bet you two would get along."

Hmm. Well, that was a lie. Hermione couldn't see the flighty Zara getting along with Riddle too well. He could be a bit dry at the best of times... Plus, he was already with Iris, wasn't he? Maybe? Not really?

Hermione sighed as they walked down the stairs. She had no idea what to expect.

Two big guys stood at the door. Their presence made Hermione nervous, even though she'd gotten their passes from Iris just that morning. Why did they need bouncers at a school party, for God's sake?

She, Mafalda, and Zara showed the guys their passes. One of them gave Zara a lecherous stare, so they entered hurriedly.

Hermione's first thought: it was _loud_. Lights glowed dimly through the haze of various types of smoke, which flavored the air with a bitter, if mild, tang. For a half a second she felt awkward. Then – thank God – Iris and Josiah poked their way out of the crowd.

"You made it!" said Iris, a grin on her perfectly-glossed lips.

"Zara, this is Iris and Josiah," Mafalda said. As the girls became acquainted, Hermione looked around. The back of the room was packed with people holding cups. Flashing lights spat sporadically out of a dark doorway at the back.

"The dance should start up in a few minutes," Josiah said, waving back at the doorway. As if cued, a series of beats started flooding out into the lounge. There was a general cheer, and a scramble for the door, as if it was the last possible opportunity to get onto the dance floor.

Hermione bit her lip. She didn't dance, of course, although it might have been okay if it were a waltz or something like that. Nothing like _this,_ though. Following the other girls to the back of the lounge, she peered into the tangled mass of people in the dark room.

"I don't dance," Mafalda said. "Or, well, let me rephrase: I _won't_ dance."

"Oh, thank God," Hermione said. "Me neither."

Iris shrugged. "All right. You can hang out in here – there's drinks, other... stuff... whatever you want. If you feel like it, meet up with us, yeah?"

"Course," said Mafalda.

With that, Iris, Josiah, and Zara made their way into the gyrating throng. Hermione's lip quivered in mild revulsion.

Mafalda helped herself to some drink or other. Hermione's wandering eyes landed on some guy standing by a table in the corner, an array of tiny plastic bags in front of him. Even as she watched, people walked by and palmed the bags with an absurd lack of subtlety, handing the kid rolls of money.

She suddenly felt sick, unable to rip her eyes from the blatancy of it.

"Granger?" said a voice from behind her, though it was practically drowned by the music. She turned.

"Oh, hello, Black. How are you?"

Cygnus Black shrugged, his blue eyes darkened by the smoggy air. "Not bad. I'm here with Riddle and Abraxas." He nodded over to one of the couches, and Hermione's heart gave a bit of a start as she made eye contact with Riddle. "So," Cygnus said, "what are you doing here?"

Mafalda finished mixing her drink, and she turned back to them, jumping at Cygnus' sudden appearance.

Hermione said, "I'm just here with Mafalda and Zara. Do you two know each other?"

Mafalda shook her head. "Mafalda Hopkirk," she said, sticking out a hand.

Cygnus seemed taken aback. "Cygnus Black." He hesitated before shaking her hand. "Would you two like to sit down?" He paused, grinning. "Unless, of course, you were headed to the dance floor."

Hermione laughed. "Er, no."

"Right. I hadn't pegged you as the dancing type," Black said, as they made their way back to the sofas.

Hermione sighed, sitting down across from Malfoy, who had his feet up on the coffee table between them. "Malfoy," she said curtly. "Riddle."

"How're you doing?" Riddle asked.

"This place is a bit loud for me," she said with a brave attempt at nonchalance. Understatement of the year.

An amused smirk made its way onto Riddle's face. "I'll bet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione said, scowling.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Seriously? You're taking as many classes as Riddle, you had your drink spiked your first night out, and you looked at us all odd for smoking. We're not stupid. If you're used to this type of scene, I'll eat my hat."

Hermione sighed. "Public school didn't exactly afford this type of get-together," she said, glancing over at Mafalda for help. She seemed engrossed in conversation with Cygnus. _Damn_.

"I'll bet," Malfoy said, raising an eyebrow. One of his hands made its way through his tousled blond hair. "Hey, I heard you went to public school. Got to ask: What was it like being surrounded by people who can't even afford an education?"

Hermione's throat tightened. She couldn't say anything for a couple of seconds. What a nasty human being. "I..." she started, but she couldn't seem to make herself say anything more. It wasn't right that people made jokes about that type of thing, the type of thing she genuinely had to worry about.

Fury simmered in her. These people could probably get into any university they wanted just by making an _endowment_ or something. How was that fair? How was it right that money had such a sickening sway over everything in the whole world?

Malfoy seemed a bit taken aback by her silence. "Hey, don't worry about it," he said. "I mean, I'm sure those were your friends. Not saying they're not nice people, or anything – just – you know, sort of funny, isn't it? Getting worried about money?"

Hermione swallowed, trying her very best to keep the anger off her face. But as she looked at Riddle, she knew he saw her every effort to calm herself down. That dark gaze understood everything.

But he wasn't looking amused by what Abraxas was saying. None of his languid, lazy humor was showing, and Hermione felt a strange rush of gratitude. She also felt a mild degree of puzzlement as Riddle said, "Tact, Abraxas. Work on it." Was he _defending_ her? Why should he care if she was getting defensive about going to public school?

A muscle tightened in Abraxas' jaw, but he didn't say anything back to Riddle, just glanced down at his hands in his lap. Hermione observed the two boys with more than a twinge of confusion. Why could Riddle get away with just ordering Malfoy around like that?

Zara broke her attention, plopping down on the couch next to her. "It's absolutely _insane_ out there," she said, panting a little. "So wild – I've never seen anything like it."

"Brilliant. Remind me to try it out sometime in the distant future," Hermione deadpanned, making no attempt to inject enthusiasm into her voice. Riddle's lips twitched in laughter, and a bizarre sense of success swelled in her. She'd amused him.

Why did that matter, really? Why was it giving her a sense of victory?

Hermione shook herself back to reality. "Zara, this is Abraxas Malfoy and Tom Riddle. You two, Zara Johnson."

"Yeah. We've got Evolution together," Riddle said.

"Johnson," Malfoy said, nodding in recognition. "Oil, right?"

"Yeah," said Zara, giving the boys a dazzling smile. Hermione could almost see the want in Zara's face as her friend allowed herself a glance at Tom Riddle. In fact, Hermione should have been amused by the clear desire – like Riddle was something to be haggled over – but she found herself completely un-amused. In fact, she found herself feeling almost _defensive._

_What on earth?_

Hermione frowned a bit and looked down at her nails. All right, so her attempt to restrain her crush on Tom Riddle hadn't gone well. So what if his composure gave him a magnetic power in conversation? So what if he was so intelligent it hurt? So what if he was more attractive than anyone she'd ever met combined? So what if he was pretty much, save for the drug use, what she'd considered an unrealistic ideal? That didn't mean she had to feel territorial about Zara _looking_ at him – it was just stupid. Even if Riddle and Zara had nothing in common – even if he was far too smart for her – even if she was far too innocent for him, going on what Iris had said –

Hermione closed her eyes, composing herself. Good God. What was the world coming to?

"Hermione's told me a lot about you," Zara said to Riddle, and mortification rose in Hermione, a red blush breaking on her cheeks.

"Oh, really?" Riddle said, dark amusement on his face. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Yeah," Zara said, not noticing the exchange at all. "You're taking as many classes as she is."

Riddle chuckled. "I _am_ first in the class," he reminded quietly. His soft voice somehow managed to carry over the music.

Hermione restrained a tight smile. First in the class? Not for long, if she had anything to say about it.

"Yeah, Caroline Longbottom told me she's always trying to catch up with you. That's amazing," said Zara. She seemed breathless with excitement, seemed shocked that she was actually holding a conversation with _the_ Tom Riddle. Like he was a celebrity or something. And it irked Hermione to no end that he seemed to be enjoying the attention, basking in it like a snake in the sun.

"I try," he yawned. "Hard to find time to relax, though, I must say."

"I'll bet," Zara said. "It's great that you're so... I don't know, dedicated, though."

Hermione strangled her chuckle. Dedicated? He never seemed like he had to work at all to succeed. It came without effort, like everything did, including, apparently, female attention. Riddle shrugged, his eyes flicking up and down Zara. Hermione could almost feel an excited quiver coming from her.

_Hormonal teenagers. Jesus Christ._

Hermione sighed, but she cut herself off as Abraxas pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. And then he offered the box to Riddle.

Hermione stared at Riddle. He surveyed the pack, his hand twitching up towards it, but then he faltered, glancing back at Hermione.

Triumph roared in her as Riddle gave a casual jerk of his head, declining the cigarette. Abraxas put away the box, and a small smile played across Hermione's lips. _Thank you._

Riddle raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say, _Look – I'm a considerate sort of person._ She let her smile grow a bit, her eyes unable to move from his.

Riddle blinked, looking a bit bemused. Then he stood up, his eyes turning back to Zara. "Hey, did Dumbledore give us any homework, besides that essay?" he asked.

"No," Zara said. "I'm having so much trouble writing it, though. I can't seem to get started."

Riddle shrugged. There was a pregnant pause. "I could show you mine, if you like," he said, and the words had a weight to them Hermione didn't like.

Something lurched in her stomach as Zara said, "Really? That would be fantastic!"

And then the lurch turned into numb disbelief as Riddle replied, "Come on, then, let's get out of here." He gave a casual wave to the rest of the seated group, and he and Zara left the Den. Zara cast a wild glance back at Hermione, an _I-can't-believe-this-is-happening_ glance.

Hermione gritted her teeth, stared at her knees, and let jealousy overtake her. Jealousy and injustice and resentment. How the hell had that happened so quickly? Abraxas Malfoy was looking at her sort of strangely, but she didn't mind.

"He tends to do that," Malfoy said.

Hermione tilted her head, looking up at him. "Yeah?" she said. "And?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Nothing. You were looking a bit... I don't know. Just... don't worry about it, right?"

"I... um, thanks," she said, and a bit of a smile reappeared on her face. Even the most bigoted people could still have their attempts at sensitivity, apparently. "Thanks, Malfoy."

oOo

It was a few hours later, and Hermione was finishing up the Evolution essay that Dumbledore had assigned. She hadn't meant to go overboard with this one – honestly, there wasn't _that_ much to say about natural selection, was there?

Well, yes, apparently there was at least seven pages' worth of stuff to say.

She yawned, checking over for grammatical errors, and an urgent knock came on the door.

Hermione frowned and glanced at her watch. It was past curfew – one thirty in the morning. "Come in...?"

Zara opened the door, slid in, and shut it behind her. "Oh my God," she said. "Oh my God."

Hermione blinked a couple times. "Yes?" she said, but her heart sank. This was the look Ginny had had when Harry had first asked her out on a date.

"What do you _think_?" squeaked Zara, and Hermione arched an eyebrow.

"I don't know," she said. It was a lie. "Something to do with a... Tom Riddle?" She hoped she didn't sound bitter. After all, this sinking feeling wasn't legitimate sadness – just raw disappointment. Hermione didn't know why this got to her on such a base level.

Well, no, that wasn't true. She knew – she just didn't want to acknowledge to herself that Tom Riddle might be as shallow as any other boy on the planet. She would have thought that someone so intelligent could have managed to look past the exterior, could have managed to look past _her_ exterior –

That was irrelevant. Hermione gave a tired smile, trying to look on the bright side.

Zara was already talking. Hermione hadn't been concentrating enough to hear the first part of her sentence, but she tuned in just in time to hear, "And then... and then he _kissed_ me."

_Of course he did._ She raised her eyebrows. "You didn't let him get too far, did you?"

Zara glanced around, lowering her voice. "We... um... do you count third base as far?"

Hermione couldn't help it – she broke out in a bout of coughing. "You had your first conversationwith him four hours ago!"

Her friend blinked and folded her arms. "Hermione, this isn't a _bad_ thing. I mean, it definitely didn't _feel_ bad."

Hermione's face turned bright red. "I … Zara, I hate to bring this up, but … did you consider that maybe he just wanted to... I don't know, get some action?" It was obvious from Iris's testimony that the Hogwarts gossip cycle got a hold of things with startling rapidity – and what if Riddle was one of those guys who moved from girl to girl faster than you could blink? How would Zara deal with having her name dragged through the mud?

Zara looked crushed. Hermione backtracked. "Look, I'm not saying... I'm not saying he necessarily just wanted to _use_ you or anything – I don't think he'd do that, but I'm just wondering if you thought about... I don't know, the possibility that it might be a one-time thing?"

Zara frowned. "I... I mean, it didn't occur to me at the time, I guess, but... do you really think he's that type of person?" She paused, sitting down. "We did talk for a while – he seems really polite. Like, sensible, you know? Sensitive. I didn't think it would be a one-night stand."

"Are you going to be mad if it is?" Hermione asked. That was the important part – that Zara not get herself emotionally invested, just in case.

"Well, _yeah, _I'll be mad," Zara laughed, and Hermione's heart sank even further. "I mean, come on, Hermione, I'm not going to get that far with just _any guy_. You really think I'm like that?"

"No!" Hermione said, waving a hand frantically. "No. I'm just... sorry if I'm coming off as mean. I'm just tired." A definite lie. She had never felt more awake.

"Yeah, me too," agreed Zara. "Actually, I'm going to go to bed. God, this night has been like... like some weird _dream._"

Hermione nodded. "Night," she said wearily, as Zara shut the door behind her.

Hermione sighed, looking down at her fingers. She suddenly felt very detached – after all, she shouldn't have cared this much about anything social. The last time she'd dedicated much thought to a boy was with Ron, before she'd sworn off boys and their inexplicable ability to ruin everything.

She turned off the light, and fumed, and wished Tom Riddle were the type to go for brains rather than looks. Actually, she wished _anyone_ were that type. Even Ron, with his French-exchange-student _Fleur_ fixation... God.

She'd refocus her efforts on schoolwork. Easy fix.

oOo

Tom Riddle stretched out on his bed like a cat, feeling satisfaction rise in him. He'd just gotten the email – Celsus Malfoy had managed to regurgitate his apology to the press most successfully, making that journalist woman seem not only incompetent but moronic. Oh, and on top of that, Riddle had had a _very_ good time with Granger's friend – what had her name been? – Johnson. Very attractive girl. It had taken a little too much talking to get to the interesting part, but that was alright, in the long run.

Riddle yawned, snuggling into his pillow. Things were going well.

He found himself wondering how the Johnson girl had gotten to be friends with Granger. In fact, how had Iris become friends with Granger? Or Josiah? Granger's social circle made an unbelievably small amount of sense, especially given that she'd used to go to _public school._

Riddle swallowed, flicking out the light. Public school hadn't gone well for him, not at all. Once he'd heard that the fortune was his... once he'd heard that the empire was his...

Well, knowing he was different from all those around him hadn't mixed well with his early fascination with human suffering, that was for sure. But those uncivilized idiots wouldn't ever push him around again. Not after Hogwarts. Not after his launch into the world of the elite, a launch he'd embraced more than he'd ever embraced anything. It felt so good being around people that assumed he was one of them – one of the _best_, from the very beginning. And now he was _the_ best.

And so would VoldeMart be, even with those people like Caroline Longbottom, people so blatantly against the company. All he had to do was graduate – how the hell hard could that be? And then there'd be no risk of anything going against the grain. There'd be no risk of anyone finding out his humble beginnings, no risk of anyone discovering he was on scholarship. No risk of anyone finding out he was still as poor as dirt until the 'fund release' happened on his eighteenth birthday, December 31st – the start of a new year.

The start of a new _era_, more like. A small smirk lifted the side of Riddle's mouth as he dropped off to sleep.

* * *

** Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are much appreciated – and who knows, in this schooltime climate, they might actually augment my update pace.**

** Wish me luck with calculus. Excuse me while I throw up.**

** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**


	5. Johnson & Johnson

**Dude, Waldemart, I forgot to say this in the last chapter, but I watched the Waldemart video on youtube and I lol'ed super-hard. Especially at the fake spells. And the Fawkes-costumed guy. Bahaha.**

** Anyway – chapter 5! Thanks so much for your feedback:**

** Ravenn28, Audrie, Kelly, xPaintedxRedx, november21, Fiore, xXBlueDazeXx, The Lady Massacre, Lost O'Fallon Girl, CupcakeChan95, The Shang Kraken, ClaireReno, sweet-tang-honney, MissImpossible, and gentlemidnite.**

** Love,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

"The 'Slug Club'?" Zara snorted. "Now, that just sounds stupid."

Hermione laughed, opening the card. "A bit ridiculous, yes. Alright, let's see here... You are cordially invited to the reconvening of the Slug Club, a group of Hogwarts' best and brightest, Saturday evening at six o'clock sharp in the Chemistry classroom."

Zara spluttered. "In the Chemistry classroom? As in, in the _Dungeons_? That's not creepy at all..."

"Oh, look, it's a dinner! Isn't that lovely," Hermione chortled. She shook her head. "Professor Slughorn is so odd. Is this a usual thing?"

"I got invited for the first time last year," Mafalda answered. "Apparently my interpersonal skills rather impressed old Sluggy." She took her card and put it back into its heavy envelope, rolling her eyes. "I didn't go. It's a way to get connected – and to get Sluggers connected with us, for when we graduate and get famous and all that... I don't know. You going?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't see why not." If it was really a way to get her name out in a world of big business – Hermione's heart leapt at the notion. It would actually be a brilliant opportunity.

Her anticipation for the Slug Club meeting powered her through the rest of the week. She doubled her speed and effort for her classes, leaving her more time for independent reading and studies. After all, current events were important to follow, and arguably even more interesting than her classes, though far more frustrating at times. Hermione had been so very pleased to see a VoldeMart scandal splashed all over the news – and then, it seemed like the very next day, it had all calmed down. And the newscasts had had the audacity to praise VoldeMart for its 'transparency' on the issue? The way Hermione saw it, that poor reporter lady had been manipulated by Malfoy, and they'd somehow managed to invent some imaginary communication error to make her look like she didn't know what she was doing.

It made Hermione so damned mad. But an email from her mother on the topic of that disgusting corporation lifted her spirits somewhat. Apparently the firm with which her mother was interning was doing some sort of investigation of charges against VoldeMart. The investigation hadn't progressed past its beginning stages, but any opposition was good at this point. VoldeMart needed to get shut down, and fast – none of these stupid taps-on-the-wrist the international community was giving it. Hell, if Hermione had to do it herself, she'd make it happen.

Then again, how could Hermione really believe she could stop anything of international magnitude later in life if she couldn't even come to terms with something as petty as her personal problems? Dammit – the issue of Tom Riddle and Zara was straying across her mind far too often for her liking. Shaking a crush over the guy was hard, especially when she'd look over in Chemistry and watch him answer a question about the recent Baroni synthesis of dihydroactinidiolide, or when he'd correctly conjugate an obscure Latin irregularity, or when he'd explain the purpose of inflectional morphemes in Linguistics... oh, dear. There was just something about a boy in control of his mind that was so appealing.

But he and Zara, since that Friday before last, had been together four or five more times, and it both frustrated and bewildered Hermione. She found it difficult to believe that anything truly genuine could stem from a half-hour of conversation pre-hook-up – but Zara seemed so happy with the situation it was sort of disgusting.

Hermione also felt a strange sense of foreboding. Riddle was a nice guy, so why did she have this gut feeling Zara was getting herself into something bad?

oOo

She looked up. It was dinnertime on Wednesday, three weeks exactly since school had started. Headmaster Dippet stood with as much overinflated grandiosity as he could muster, and the four chaperones made their way down to the tables, each holding a hefty stack of envelopes. "Well, it's time for the first progress report of the year," Dippet said.

Booing ensued from the Griffin's Door kids. Hermione chuckled, her excitement rising. Dippet continued, "Your class rank will be printed at the top, as well as your grades for each of your classes below that. I hope your school year has been going well, and if you need any incentive to pick up your academic work, I hope this provides it! Please take your envelope and sit back down before opening it so as to avoid a general stampede."

Hermione was at the back of the table, which meant, to her dismay, the back of the line. The wait seemed interminable, but at _last_, some report on how she was doing arrived in her hand.

She hurried back to her place at the table, threw herself into her seat, and ripped open the envelope feverishly.

The class rank was a small, black number at the top. A one-digit number, with a little chain-link symbol next to it.

1.

A broad grin split on Hermione's face. One. One meant victory.

Mafalda was scowling. Hermione tucked away her letter, not wanting to reveal the source of her happy glow to anyone. Knowing she was number one was more than satisfaction enough.

"You alright?" Hermione asked Mafalda.

Mafalda held up the letter. "I dropped two places. And I'm not even just eighteenth – I'm _tied_ for eighteenth place." She shoved the paper at Hermione.

Hermione's heart sank. The number looked exactly like hers. "Hold on. How do you know you're tied?"

Mafalda pointed at the chain-link symbol. "Tie."

Hermione sighed, swallowing hot disappointment. Dammit. She should've known better than to expect she could outright beat Tom Riddle, who was perfect without even doing anything to deserve it...

She looked up, shooting a furtive glance at Riddle.

Well, at least she wasn't alone in her frustration. Riddle was gripping his glass so hard she was surprised it didn't break. He stared at the envelope in front of him like he was trying to make it burst into flame. His dark features were alight with a malice Hermione had never seen. He looked scary.

She looked back at her envelope and licked her lips slowly. If he was going to hate her for dethroning him, so be it. Hermione Granger didn't come in second. Ever.

As the students started to spill towards the doors, abandoning the dinner tables, Hermione heard Caroline Longbottom's bossy voice saying, "...utterly unacceptable. I have to be _the best._"

Hermione sighed. Poor girl probably didn't even know what had hit her.

oOo

Tom Riddle threw the glass at the wall.

Admittedly, it would be annoying to have to clean it up, but his mind was rather preoccupied with other things than foresight at that second. And the violent _smash_ of the glass breaking was more than a bit satisfying.

He stuck his hands into his pockets and walked over to the window, his hard glare piercing into the sunset. _Dammit._ And then – and then Longbottom had dared to crow in the midst of the Great Hall that she had to be _the best_? As if it wasn't sheer luck that she'd tied with him in the first place.

Caroline wasn't even that smart! She'd had to work to get those grades! A clear sign of inferiority, in Tom's eyes.

Oh, oh, and thiswhole unnecessary debacle was just the cherry on top of the – the – no, that wouldn't do. Tom liked cherries. It was like the chewed gum underneath a desk or something, so repulsive, so unanticipated. Unplanned. _Unbelievable._ He'd beat Longbottom with such ease for years... _how?_ Was she taking an online class or something?

He had otherthings to be worried about, and this was just setting him off, because what with the gender discrimination lawsuit over in the American branch, he really didn't have time to worry about school. Gender prejudice? Honestly? Just because men _happened_ to be five and a half times more likely to receive a promotion, didn't mean it was _because _they were men. And now the American Supreme court was seriously considering Hazzards v. VoldeMart to be tipping in favor of Hazzards? Absurd. If they wanted to sue VoldeMart over something, there were plenty of other things to choose from – forget something as tired and used as _gender prejudice._ As if gender prejudice really even existed in this modern climate.

Women were all so overdramatic.

He wouldn't have minded if the press weren't being so vigorous with their coverage. Honestly, if all those bickering pundits would sit back and look at the facts... VoldeMart had honestly _never had _that much of an impact on the job market, even _with_ layoffs. Sure, with the recent recession, unemployment was rising steadily – but really, before then, the unemployment rate had flatlined, unaffected by VoldeMart. The giant groups of people were finding work elsewhere – wasn't that what technological advancement was for? New job opportunities. So they got fired. Big deal. They'd get over it.

Riddle couldn't see any of those masses of poor people complaining when they got in line to buy the cheapest things around at VoldeMart.

_Gender prejudice._ His rage flared anew.

Riddle stalked over to his desk and flung open a drawer. A practically-antique Dell laptop sat inside. It creaked as he opened it, a vocal reminder of how shabby everything he owned was. _December 31__st__ – December 31__st__ – dammit –_

It took so long to load the internet connection that he very nearly lost his temper, very nearly snapped the damn thing in half. But since he didn't have a cell phone, the school's shitty spare laptop had to make do.

He used some online application to text a select few people – a select nine. _Fourth floor. Ten o'clock._

The room on the fourth floor was an unused classroom, and it had served his purpose since he'd first gathered this group around him a couple years ago. It had used to be the school's chorus room, housing tunes such as the Hogwarts School Song and Something Wicked This Way Comes, before the school board realized that a chorus was completely irrelevant to Big Important Things like the quest for getting into university. The side result of the short-lived chorus was, though, a nice _soundproof_ location for any other Big Important Things that needed doing.

And this needed doing.

Riddle waited for a response. It was only seconds later when the nine confirmations arrived.

He sat down on his bed. This year wasn't going as swimmingly as past years had. All this worry, all these negotiations, all these damned compromises... It couldn't be because of something _he _was doing wrong, could it?

A shred of self-doubt permeated Riddle's mind as he studied his interlocked fingers. Perhaps he should step it up a notch. He hadn't ever hesitated to exert control over the other boys, per se, but he'd never showed them the extent of his capabilities. And, frankly, if things needed tightening, he would do whatever it took to get rid of laxness.

He reached for a sheet of paper. Time to renew the vitality of the regime.

oOo

Hermione graphed the equation, but it wasn't working right. She shook her calculator a couple times – sometimes the battery connection was faulty – but no. She'd managed to make some sort of mistake with the graph itself... but how was that possible?

This wasn't improving her foul mood. She shoved aside the math and turned, instead, to International Relations. So, Riddle thought this class was a joke, did he? Well, too bad for him it was helping her tie for first – and, with any sort of luck, she would overtake him soon enough.

Not that luck ever seemed to be against Tom Riddle.

A knock on the door. "Come in," Hermione called.

Mafalda and Zara hurried in. "Want to go out?" asked Zara.

"But you two haven't changed your clothes," Hermione said dryly. "How could we possibly go out without you completely altering your outfits?"

"Sarcasm appreciated," Mafalda chuckled, "but honestly – it's gorgeous out. Come on, Hermione – it doesn't usually stay this warm this late in the year. Good opportunity."

Hermione snorted. "So, what, the pool isn't heated for the winter months?"

"Of course it is," said Mafalda. "That's irrelevant. Come on; let's go."

Hermione let out a long sigh and fixed Mafalda with a frank stare. "I'd really rather not."

"Why?" asked Zara, a pleading sort of pout on her face. Hermione nearly laughed – like Zara needed Hermione in order to have fun at a party.

"Look, I honestly don't like going out that much," she said, setting down her pencil. "It always involves alcohol, and I don't drink. Everyone's always well-dressed, and I feel awkward. And – this is probably the worst – everyone knows each other, and I don't know anybody."

Zara spluttered, sitting on Hermione's desk chair. "You know about as many people as I do."

"Yeah, right," snorted Hermione. Zara had blended into the fabric of Hogwarts as if she'd lived there her entire life. "You're part of the Hogwarts _family_. I know they don't know I'm a scholarship student, but I knowthey can tell there's something different about me. Frankly, it's embarrassing, and I do have work to do, so... I'm staying here tonight. Sorry."

Mafalda and Zara exchanged a glance, and Mafalda sat down too. "Listen, why haven't you told anyone about your being on scholarship? Don't you think... well, don't you think they should know?"

Hermione shrugged, but she didn't like the way this conversation was turning. Hell, she felt defensive already, and they didn't even know she'd lied to Iris and Josiah. "I just don't think it's important for them to know that. I want people to know Hermione Granger as Hermione Granger, not as some stereotype decorated with all sorts of poorly-preconceived notions." She paused, taking a calming breath. "In fact, if they get to know me and like me as a person, maybe when I tell them I'm not really... well, rich, I can help them get over their prejudice."

Zara shrugged. "Maybe there's no prejudice to get rid of. I don't feel like anyone I've met here would judge you for being... disadvantaged," she said carefully.

"Poor," Hermione said stiffly. "It's fine, you can say it." She glanced away from Zara, who honestly looked like she believed her own words. Zara had met Abraxas Malfoy – how could she try to tell Hermione there was no prejudice? It was almost cruel, the tantalizing possibility that people might not care about her socioeconomic status. But Iris... and Josiah... and Malfoy, of course, though that went without saying... "I can think of a few people off the top of my head," Hermione sighed.

Mafalda frowned. "Well, then, do you really think you should be hanging around them? People like that aren't worth your time."

Hermione looked down at her fingers, which twisted into each other, a convoluted mess of bitten nail and tan skin. "That's not true. I wish it were true, I really do. You know, when I got here, I sort of thought it would be that easy, you know? The good people, who were going to accept me no matter what, the nice, kind, funny, smart – whatever. And then there would be the _bad_ people, who were going to judge me for _what_ I was instead of _who_ – except..." She trailed off, thinking hard. "I don't know. I think I had it in my mind that those people would all be like the _bad_ people from movies – like, evil, genuinely evil. Cruel, self-centered, just outright mean. Easy not to get along with. Easy to stand up to, and all that, because I'd know I was right."

Zara and Mafalda listened intently. Hermione blushed a little. She didn't like talking this long. "The thing is, they just don't make people like that, you know? They don't make all these... these cookie-cutter archetypical _evil people." _She swallowed, trying to articulate her jumbled mess of speech.

"The people who judge people based on money, and all that stuff – they don't _mean_ anything by it. They're harmless." She paused. "Well, the ones I've met so far, anyway. I bet there _are_ some downright poorly-intentioned bigots in the world, but no one thinks of themselves as the bad guy, so no one's just going to be mean without any justification. And these people, who've just been _raised_ to care about class – I meet them, and I like them, because they're friendly. It's not until I sort of get to know them that I realize they're apathetic about the injustice in our society – and then I feel so... I don't know, betrayed. I don't know how they can just slip by my radar so easily, but they're just kids; they're not..."

She sighed and looked down at her crossed legs. "Forget it. I'm ranting. Sorry."

"No, it's interesting," Mafalda said. "I definitely see where you're coming from, too. All the kids down in the Den are old money, but most of them are pretty decent as long as they don't get all stuck-up on you." She paused, re-tying her blond hair. "Honestly, though, you've _got _to look at what's important. Don't you, you know, value a lack of bigotry in someone you're befriending?"

Hermione drew herself up, feeling her defensiveness rise again. "Of course I do. Look, it's not about me; it's about them_._ Why would I purposefully attempt to make someone uncomfortable? It's like finding out someone is for the Labour Party and preaching conservatism at them. It's just... irrational." She slumped backwards onto her pillows. "Besides," she muttered, "I miss Harry and Ron." She hadn't voiced the thought to anyone, but it had to be said.

"Who?" asked Zara.

"My best friends from Inner London," Hermione said, "and I don't even have a mobile to text them or anything."

Zara let out a breath of disbelief. "_Hermione._ If you ever want to use my phone to text your friends, you don't even have to _ask._ Come on – what are friends for, right?"

Hermione felt a smile pull at her lips despite her best efforts to mope. "Thanks, you two," she said. "What going on with your lives? Classes sort of smother me having any sort of decent communication with the world."

And as Mafalda launched into a lengthy detail of the universities she was applying to, Hermione felt herself buoyed by the fact that the two girls were here for her. No matter what sort of conflict she was going through, she wouldn't have to do it alone.

oOo

Riddle shut the door. The boys stood before him – Abraxas Malfoy, Cygnus Black, Jonathan Avery, Andrew Yaxley, Aquilus Lestrange, Lerman Carrow, Fyodor Dolohov, and – necessary, though a bit embarrassing – Angus Crabbe and Calvin Goyle.

"Hello," Riddle said quietly. It didn't matter how softly he spoke. He could have whispered – the room was quieter than any grave he'd ever visited, and there was a long list of those. "A few things have come to light in recent times, not the least of which is that inconvenient court case over there in those wonderfully dysfunctional United States. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate my frustrations as to that, but I'm afraid I do have a personal issue to address."

He looked around the room from blank face to blank face. Riddle said, "I need someone incapacitated, although it will require a certain degree of finesse. Aquilus, I'd like for you to handle it. Please stay afterwards."

Aquilus Lestrange seemed to straighten a little bit at the words, at the trust. Riddle leaned against the door, crossing his arms. A lazy smirk wandered across his face. "I assume all of your school years are going well," he said to the group at large. "If your grades are unsatisfactory, I may have to reconsider my proposal that we work jointly, so do keep up your studying." Working jointly, of course, referring to being a part of VoldeMart's Board of Directors. A tempting prospect indeed, especially for the quiet types like Crabbe and Goyle who could never expect to get anywhere on interpersonal skills.

Riddle placed his hands in the pocket of his black jacket, feeling the smooth lacquer of the pocketknife in his right, the cool plastic of the lighter in his left. It was really remarkable, how easy it was to cause pain. So, so easy.

"Forward, to matters of incompetence," he sighed. "It has come to my attention that perhaps I have been getting flippant in my assumptions that everyone in this room is fully dedicated to the cause. I understand that your eighteenth year of life is primarily supposed to consist of frivolous pursuits. I don't think I'm being unreasonable, however, when I ask that you do what I tell you, when I tell you. Or even that you make logical inferences, such as... being slightly easier to find on any given night, Mr. Malfoy. Or perhaps, Mr. Avery, not bothering me with every petty inconsequential issue that comes your way. If any of you were blatantly unintelligent, you would not be standing in front of me, so please use your God-given brains. If you're unwilling to do so, believe me; there are other candidates."

He surveyed them. "Are we clear?" he murmured, trying to make eye contact with any of them. None would meet his gaze. "Good. I've decided that, if we are solidified in our membership, certain measures be taken to ensure absolute secrecy. Unfortunately, there's no handy little abracadabra to wipe memories from your minds, so what I tell you remains in strict confidence only if your tongues are tight."

Then he drew the knife from his right pocket, and each boy visibly tensed. "I figured a bit of reiteration wouldn't go amiss," Riddle said softly. The smirk lifted his left cheek. Oh, this was relaxing. Just the tension-release he'd needed. "Hmm... Lerman, why don't you come up here?"

Carrow walked forward briskly. Riddle rather liked Carrow's straightforward, no-nonsense attitude. If he were to choose a second-in-command, Carrow would not escape consideration. Neither would Aquilus Lestrange, with his blind dedication to power.

Riddle pressed his thumb down, and the sharp silver blade sprang out of the pocketknife. Carrow couldn't help but swallow.

Riddle said, "I've decided that any sort of lasting mark has to be in a convenient location, one that won't accidentally be seen. So, Lerman, would you care to take off your shirt?" Carrow obliged instantly. "I hope you don't feel uncomfortable," Riddle chuckled, wanting to break the tension. There were a few nervous titters from the other boys, as usually happened when he attempted humor around matters of grave seriousness.

"If you must scream, don't do it in my ear," he whispered in Lerman's ear, and then, grim smile on, he dug a hot, shallow, bloody line into Carrow's chest with the silver blade. Right over his heart.

Carrow's mouth opened, and his deep voice let out a raw, overextended 'ah' of agony. Tears popped from his eyes like they'd been waiting to get out for hours.

Nothing terribly distinctive. A dark red V. Definitely sufficient – but Tom Riddle didn't get by on sufficient. Sufficient was never remarkable, and if Tom Riddle was one thing, it was remarkable.

So the lighter came out, and for various punishments, or perhaps just because making others thrash and yell felt extremely therapeutic, nine boys screamed under the flame. Each emerged marked with the knife's 'V', with its bloody cauterized aftermath.

Aquilus stayed after, as requested, even as the other boys went to go clean their wounds. "Oh, yes, Lestrange," Riddle said, disturbing casualness in his voice as he tucked away his blood-soaked pocketknife. "I meant to ask you to remove Caroline Longbottom from the student population for a while. Two weeks, perhaps." _Just long enough for her to get behind. _He opened the classroom door. "No lasting damage. I expect subtlety and efficiency. The sooner you get this done, the more satisfied I will be. Goodnight."

Riddle let out a long breath, taking out the knife again, wiping the stains from the blade. No, it wouldn't be good to get Longbottom killed. He hoped he'd made it clear enough that the injury shouldn't be permanent – or, God forbid, end in another death. It would be terrible if Lestrange somehow made the inconvenient accident just a little too tragic.

Oh, well. It wasn't something he'd deign to do himself, so no sense worrying about it. But – killing people did make things very convoluted, like that whole debacle back in the fifth year with that Myrtle girl... but she'd been so loudmouthed. He couldn't have let lie the possibility of her blabbing about what exactly she'd seen, what exactly was hidden in that bathroom, in the free space behind those sinks...

Not, of course, that she'd have known what was written on those papers. But there were far too many to move at a moment's notice; some would have been found by – Tom dreaded the thought – _Dumbledore. _Myrtle would have told someone about it, surely, for it wasn't exactly commonplace that a fifth-year boy would lurk around in a girl's bathroom. Especially poking through the page equivalent of the Hogwarts Library, hidden behind that key-coded entrance –

Ignorance was bliss. Poor, stupid girl should have remained ignorant. Well, it was a good thing she hadn't been related to anyone particularly influential, anyway. There would have been a lot more investigation.

Riddle closed the door behind him, thinking. A V-shaped scar over the heart wouldn't be too suspicious, if one of the boys was to be seen shirtless. Besides, the cuts would only scar in color, if the boys cleaned them the proper way – which meant that they could be covered up with makeup. No strange ridges or bumpy scar tissue.

Riddle looked around. His bad mood was almost gone – just one more thing for the night, and he'd be relaxed once more.

He made his way down to the Den, picked up a phone that was lying on the table, and typed in a number.

oOo

"Are you serious?" Mafalda said, disapproval all over her face. "He just texts you and expects you to show up? Like you're some sort of call girl?"

However, for all of Mafalda's indignance, Zara didn't seem to mind. "I mean, we are sort of an item now," she said, a small smile on her lips. "At least, that's what he told me the day before yesterday."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "No way," she breathed. "That's great, Zara!" If he was legitimately going to go public with her, that meant all Hermione's foreboding instincts would be wrong. It also meant that Tom Riddle wasn't just some appearance-oriented, hormonal boy, thus salvaging him in Hermione's eyes. Fantastic. So what if he and Zara still didn't make sense together? He was a decent person. Relief flooded Hermione.

"I still don't think you should just come running when he texts you," huffed Mafalda, seeming to take great personal offense at the situation. Hermione wondered if there was more to Mafalda's indignation than she was letting on, or if she was just being her usual domineering self.

Zara frowned. "What do you think, Hermione?"

"I mean, the way he worded it was a bit obnoxious, I suppose. Are you even in the mood?"

Zara let out a sort of 'blaahhhh' noise, slumping down in her chair. "Not really. Wednesdays are tough – I have _four classes_ in a _row._"

Hermione couldn't help herself – she burst into hysterical laughter. _Four whole classes_. "Sorry... I just – sorry. Anyway, if you're tired, you should make a rain check or something. If you two are about to start dating, there's no reason you should have to be free at every possibility." She paused. "Not that you should _ever_ have to be free all the time for a boy. You know what I mean."

Mafalda gave an approving nod, and Zara paused, thought for a second, and then opened her BlackBerry again. "You're right. My one purpose in life isn't just to follow him around." She keyed in a response and pressed 'send', letting out a satisfied sigh. "It's just odd," she said, "to think that I can actually say 'no' to Tom Riddle, you know? I mean, I had the _hugest_ crush on him, ever since he showed us around the castle, really, and after that I felt like he was some sort of celebrity." She slipped her phone back into her jacket pocket. "I know it's sort of ridiculous, but the whole thing has just been like... like some whirlwind."

Hermione sighed. "I can't imagine," she said, but that was a lie. She'd experienced something similar with Viktor Krum, the transfer student back in Inner London. Internationally ranked tennis star Viktor Krum noticing _her_? It had seemed outlandish, at the time. Unbelievable. Yet... somehow...

She shook away the memory. She and Viktor still wrote, every so often. He'd never been the most vocal of boys, but he had a beautiful turn of phrase that made her nostalgic.

It was well past eleven o'clock when Zara and Mafalda left for their dorms. Hermione gave a contented sigh and sat down in her desk chair to finish one last problem for maths on her computer – but she was irritated to find she'd apparently left Skype on since last night. Harry and Ron had both tried to talk to her, too. Admittedly, that had been at three in the morning, so she wouldn't have been able to reply, but it was still frustrating. She made a mental note to write them both snail-mail, as she'd promised.

Then she saw the third chat box. It was from only a short while ago, from her newly-imported Hogwarts contacts, and her heart practically stopped.

.

Iris Parkinson says (9:12:02 PM): hey u there?

(9:13:14): hermione im serious, i need advice

(9:13:30): hermione hermione hermione hermione hermione hermione hermione hermioneeeeee

(9:14:03): im not going to write all that again but if your there i NEED YOUR HELP

(9:15:24): please?

(9:16:18): ok fine. just so u know tom asked me to come up to his room and i asked him why

(9:16:40): and he was like oh i think you know why and i was just like ...

(9:17:15): i mean seriouely! what am i supposed to say to that? i havent replied but i sort of want to go...but i wanted to ask you first since your good with decisionsand stuff

(9:18:51): ok fine, i guess youre not there... fine hermione be like that :(

(9:19:30): If I type with correct grammer, will you listen? I'm seriously freaking out. Like, seriously.

(9:20:32): like i thought he and zara had something going on but i guess not? and now im just sitting here typing to someone whos obvs not there, great job iris great job

(9:23:08): ok he texted me again, im going to go... dont be mad at me please! its your fault for not being here jk

.

Hermione's eyes could have cut through steel. Why the hell would Riddle have told Zara they were an item if he obviously didn't think so because he was _getting with Iris at the next possible opportunity?_

Righteous anger streamed through Hermione. He was unbelievable!

She took a deep breath, fighting it. Maybe there had been some sort of miscommunication. Maybe Riddle had never thought they were together. That would be a perfectly valid explanation, actually – miscommunication was so common –

Also, part of Hermione desperately wanted to believe Tom was innocent.

Every part of her froze as he came online. Quick – what was an excuse to talk to him? What classes did they have the next day?

Economics! Perfect topic to seize on; she could talk about economics for forever, and she could pretend not to have finished that essay Merrythought had assigned, and her excuse for not having finished would be that she was talking with Zara – a perfect tie-in to the conversation she wanted to have –

She clicked on the icon before he could have a chance to get offline.

.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Hey, Tom.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Hermione Granger. What a pleasant surprise.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Haha. I can smell your dry sarcasm from here.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Unsurprising. So, may I help you?

_Hermione Granger says:_

Actually, I was wondering how long Merrythought's essay had to be. I'm pretty sure I'm over the page count already, but I'm not sure, and I'm not quite finished.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Procrastination? How dreadfully unbecoming.

.

Hermione grinned. _Perfect._

_._

_Hermione Granger says:_

Oh, believe you me, it's not a habit. I was just speaking with Zara, actually, so that's why I'm not done with everything just yet.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Oh.

How's she?

_Hermione Granger says:_

She's alright. Actually, she's really happy with how things are going between you and her. :)

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Right. Well, I don't usually receive complaints in that department.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Wait, what?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

...Oh dear. I don't think we're talking about the same 'things' at all, are we?

_Hermione Granger says:_

Er no. I don't think so either.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Care to clarify?

_Hermione Granger says:_

She said you told her that you two were an 'item'.

.

There was a very long pause. Then,

.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Granger. Can you really see me saying that word?

_Hermione Granger says:_

Well, no.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Oh dear God. There seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Yes. Yes there has.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Well shit.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Language.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

No. I was completely under the impression that she knew it was just a fling. I don't have time to deal with girl drama right now.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Oh, please, like you have to worry about academics.

_When you're tied with me for valedictorian._

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Actually, there's been... a bit of a problem.

_Hermione Granger says:_

What problem?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Caroline Longbottom is tied with me for first in the class.

.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and had a hearty laugh at that. How had he reached _that_ conclusion?

.

_Hermione Granger says:_

How did you reach _that_ conclusion?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Well obviously, Granger, I knew I was tied because the sheet told me. Then, I was walking out of the Great Hall, and Longbottom's obnoxious voice goes, right in my ear, "This is utterly unacceptable. I have to be _the best._"

_Hermione Granger says:_

Oh, dear.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Yes.

In any case, it's getting rather late, so I should go to sleep. You should, too, once you finish being woefully underprepared.

_Hermione Granger says:_

You're a lot nicer in person, aren't you?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Internet-related anonymity tends to breed a thorough lack of etiquette. As evidenced by the scum on 4chan.

_Hermione Granger says:_

You know, it's odd. You sound so much more formal when you're writing.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

I suppose I do have a bit of an archaic turn of phrase.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Why?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Lots of practice in formal writing, of course.

There was a pause. He wrote for a while, but in the end, all that showed up was:

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

You know. Essays and things.

_Hermione Granger says:_

I guess. Okay, I'll let you get to sleep. Sorry to bother you.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Aren't you forgetting something?

_Hermione Granger says:_

...no?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

I never told you how long the essay is supposed to be, Granger.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Right! Jesus, I get so scatterbrained late at night. Completely forgot.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

I see.

Anyway, it's two pages, though I'll bet you've written twice that already, being you.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Haha. Three times, actually.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Show-off.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Oh, as if you haven't done the same?

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Fine. I concede defeat to your clearly superior powers of inference. Also, goodnight.

_Hermione Granger says:_

Sleep well!

_Tom Marvolo Riddle says:_

Thanks. Same to you.

.

With that, he went offline. Hermione sighed in almost-relief – his character was clean, if a bit... snarkier than usual, late at night. Online. When he was alone in his room, his handsome features probably lit up by the fluorescent light of his computer, his hair probably messy, his expression indubitably as calm as usual –

Hermione shook her head. A feeling like impending doom settled over her instead of that slightly giddy sensation she'd gotten from talking to him. She would have to be the one to break it to Zara that Riddle wanted nothing more from her than an extended hook-up. Which would mean breaking it to Zara that she had discussed her, with Riddle, behind her back.

Oh, God. And Zara's defensiveness would surely pop up again, maybe even her sappy overemotional side –

This was going to be a nightmare.

It was exactly as bad as Hermione had envisioned it would be. When she told Zara that Riddle had thought it was nothing all along, only worded a bit more kindly, Zara had honest-to-God started to cry_._ She, Mafalda, and Hermione had had to flee the breakfast table, and then they sought refuge in the girls' bathroom.

Hermione had never been good at consolation; good solid advice was so much easier than consolation... So why was she attempting it now? It would only turn out badly.

"It's alright," she said awkwardly. "I mean, you obviously couldn't help but get your hopes up, really..."

"It's _not alright!_" Zara sobbed. "He cheated! I can't believe it!"

Hermione frowned. Now, there was no need to get irrational. "Well, if he never explicitly stated that you were going out, it isn't technically cheating, is it?" she said, only recognizing Mafalda's _what-the-hell-are-you-saying_ look too late. "I mean -" she started, but it was too late.

"Are you serious?" wailed Zara. "So this is my fault? For being a stupid _girl_ about this whole thing and thinking I could get a decent guy for once in my life? What is he even trying to do? He didn't make it seem like it was – like I was just some fling. He definitely talked about us being together. I just, like – I just want to know what the hell's going on inside his head! Is that too fucking much to ask from any guy on this whole – entire – fucking – _planet_?"

"No, of course not!" Hermione said hurriedly. "No, it's completely reasonable to want – some answers – at this point – closure –"

"I'm sure Hermione would be perfectly okay asking him about it for you," Mafalda said in a motherly tone of voice, placing a strong hand on Zara's shoulder. Zara wiped her eyes, trying not to smear her makeup, and looked at Hermione.

"Oh, would you?" she asked breathlessly, her dark eyes glimmering with hope. "I would appreciate that so much, Hermione -"

Hermione shrugged. "Of course," she said. "Anything." _...to calm you down._

"Okay," Zara said in a small voice. She blew her nose one final time and took a couple of deep breaths.

"Let's go and get some breakfast, and we'll see how you're feeling after that, okay?" Mafalda said, putting her arm around Zara's shoulder and steering her out of the bathroom. Hermione sighed, flicking her hazel eyes up to the heavens. Why hadn't she been blessed with Mafalda's talent for understanding how to make people feel good about themselves?

* * *

**X**

**x**

** Yay for writer's block going away! Took long enough. Anyway, this chapter slipped out as easy as... as soap in the shower! So that's why the update time is relatively reasonable.**

** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**


	6. ThyssenKnut

**Your new update. It is fairly eventful! I hope you enjoy it.**

** Thanks to:**

** Nerys, hereToRead84, murtagh799, slytherinslut13, Artemis XIII, Audrie, ber1719, KeitarosKeroNeko, november21, Kelly, CupcakeChan95, Fraser, ClaireReno, Lost O'Fallon Girl, MissKaylala, aaand MissImpossible – for your feedback, critiques, advice, comments, presence. :D**

** A couple of anonymous review replies are at the bottom.**

** Enjoy 6!**

** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

The night class on Thursdays was only for people with scheduling conflicts, so it was relatively small. Hermione and Tom had only ten or eleven students to accompany them in the incredibly important class of Practical Applications of Life Skills, which was – God knew why – mandatory.

Hermione had been wondering the entire day how she would pose the question to Riddle – _what exactly are you... doing with Zara?_

It was unfortunate that she'd accepted this mission in the first place. Really unfortunate, since her logical mind didn't see how Riddle had done anything wrong. Zara had, after all, admitted that she might have been wrong about him saying they were an item – which meant that she had just been reading too much into Riddle's actions. Hermione was starting to see Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil in Zara – her old classmates had always drawn inferences from things that didn't make logical sense.

Hermione raised a hand in a wave to Riddle as she entered the classroom. He gave a small nod.  
She lowered herself into the chair next to him with a tired sigh.

"Long day?" he asked.

Hermione blew some hair away from the side of her face, drumming her fingers on the table. How to broach the subject…? "It's been moderately stressful."

"I see."

"Zara has been overreacting rather wildly about this entire situation."

He slouched down a little further in his chair, crossing his arms. "There's a situation?"

"Yes, there is. You somehow managed to make Zara think that you were going to date her, and then you went and fooled around with Iris last night, and I honestly don't quite see how any of this is your fault, but the end result is that Zara is really upset."

Riddle fixed her with a bewildered stare. "Are you serious?"

"Quite," Hermione sighed. She hoped she hadn't revealed too much about the inner machinations of girls' discussions, but honesty was the best policy, right? "Anyway. I'm supposed to find out what you're thinking."

"I think about lots of things," Riddle said with exaggerated patience, like he was talking to a particularly obtuse child.

"Yes, I know that," Hermione said curtly. "Maybe some reasoning as to why you're going around hooking up with every girl in sight?"

"Au contraire," Riddle replied, the French smooth from his lips. "You're in my sight."

Hermione scowled, unimpressed, and looked up at the front of the classroom. The teacher seemed to be trying to say something, but he was being drowned out by the general antics of the class clowns, a sister and brother with bright red hair. "Look, if you could just give me some reason that'll satisfy Zara, I'd really appreciate -"

"Oh, so you don't actually care what the reason is? You just want to get her out of your hair?" His voice was cool and amused.

"I didn't say -"

"Come on, Granger," Riddle sighed. "You care about this just as little as I do."

The worst part was realizing that he was right, because every logical part of Hermione's brain was insisting that Riddle had been exonerated from any accusations of dishonor. Of course, that didn't justify his other behaviors. "Well, not quite," she said. "I don't see why you feel the need to skip around the female population. I assume you're familiar with the term 'chauvinism' -"

She was interrupted by his laugh. "That's the first time I've been called chauvinistic. I don't see why it's a big deal. You seriously think any so-called 'relationships' made in this place are gonna last outside a couple years?"

Hermione didn't need to answer that question. She let out a short sigh. "That doesn't discount the fact that getting used to a monogamous lifestyle is hardly a bad thing -"

"We're young," Riddle yawned, leaning back in his chair. "Relax."

"There's no time to get lax about things!"

Riddle's chair legs came back to the ground with a soft _thock_, and his brown eyes got serious. "There's a big difference between relaxing and getting lax," he said quietly. "If I were getting lax, I wouldn't have A-stars in all my classes, would I?" Riddle gave a self-satisfied smirk and dug his hand into his hair, its chaos engulfing his slender fingers.

Hermione sighed. "No, I don't suppose you would. But there are other things that should be taken seriously besides just schoolwork."

Riddle's silence only seemed to heighten the irony of the words from the lips of Hermione Granger.

She hastily said, "I'm not saying that relationships are necessarily one of those things, of course – and I guess it's silly that someone should get worked up over something like this – but it's not like a relationship doesn't have the potential to be something important."

Riddle shrugged. "You know this from experience?"

After the fiasco of the last one … although it really _had_ had potential, to start with …

She found herself unable to answer for a second, caught up in regrets. Then she said, "Fine. I'll concede that I have no actual evidence."

"What, you've never had a boyfriend?" Riddle asked, sounding bored enough to just melt into the floor. Hermione couldn't imagine he was enjoying the conversation at all.

"Just one. Well, two, sort of. But – wait, no, one. Or maybe none," she said. Did Viktor count, really? They'd had an emotional connection, but it hadn't lasted long; he'd had to return home... Did realizing she was in love with Ron far too late for anything to happen count?

"Well. That made sense," said Riddle, smirking. "Whatever. As if I care if you've got zero romantic experience."

"Well, it's better than sleeping around," Hermione shot back.

Riddle gave a half-chuckle. "Again with the overreacting. Chill. Out." He spun his pencil a few times. "And I don't _sleep around_," he added, rolling his eyes.

"Sure," Hermione said. "Sure you don't. And I don't care if you judge me for not having a boyfriend – I care more about schoolwork anyway -" She pursed her lips, cutting herself off. She sounded like a recluse or something. He probably thought she was painfully antisocial. Worse – he probably thought she could never get a boyfriend in the first place –

But he straightened up a little, his fingers playing with a tear in his jeans. "No, I understand. Work will always be more important than personal life."

Hermione sighed a sigh of relief. Finally, a point of agreement. "_Thank_ you. No one else seems to understand that. People always get this look on their face when I tell them about something I read, or something I learned in class – as if learning is really such a useless idea."

He looked a bit amused by her outburst, but there was something else on his face, too. Something she didn't recognize. "Yeah. It's ridiculous," he said.

There was a pause. "Sorry," Hermione said. "I just... it really irks me when people think ignorance is a joke. In my opinion, everyone should be informed, all the time."

"Couldn't agree more." An almost-appraising look flitted across his face, his eyes gripping her tight. "I bet you were first in the class at your old school, huh?"

"Yes," she managed to grind out. Ernie Macmillan... definitely still a sore topic. Then Hermione remembered – Riddle thought that Caroline Longbottom had been his tied competition. She might as well set him straight about that, while they were on the topic. "Actually, if not for one little obstacle, I'd be first here, too," she said, smiling warmly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And what's that?"

"You," Hermione said.

There was a long, long silence.

Hermione continued, "I was meaning to tell you last night, but I thought it was funny that you assumed it was Caroline and not me – even though it was sort of – well, we take most of the same classes, and everything."

"Oh, right. Of course." His blank expression didn't change.

Behind that expression, though, Tom Riddle was experiencing the closest thing he'd had to panic in a while. Which, well, wasn't so much panic as mild revulsion. _Granger_ was tied with him for first in the class? A new student? From _public school_? It downright insulted him. What sort of education had she had prior to this, anyway? Nothing of worth! And now she was competing with him for first in the best school in the country? His mind found the concept offensive.

But that wasn't the problem. _Shit – _he had to stop Lestrange from doing anything to Longbottom. He had to stop the boy _now._

"Could I borrow your mobile?" he asked Hermione, not thinking about how that didn't logically proceed from their conversation at all.

She shook her head. "I, um, I don't have one. On me. At the moment. Where's yours?"

Riddle let out a tight breath through his teeth. "We must be the only two people in this whole school without a phone," he said, trying to get the tension out of his voice. But it was too late.

"Are you alright?" Hermione's eyes narrowing a bit. That look on her face was starting to become familiar to Riddle.

"Fine," he said. "I just need to check something."

He borrowed the phone of the boy sitting to his left, typing furiously.

Five minutes passed, Hermione working on some homework in silence, Riddle waiting for a response. But Lestrange did not reply. Of course he wouldn't hear the buzzing of his phone, wherever he was – it was a Thursday night, a party night. Riddle cursed inwardly about eighty times and stuck his hand into the air.

"Yes?" said the teacher weakly, staring at the paper airplanes whizzing around.

"May I use the restroom?" asked Riddle. The teacher nodded and immediately turned back to his failed attempt to get the Weasley siblings to stop their antics. He wouldn't be successful, Riddle knew. In fact, he might not even make it through the entire year. Since the late sixties, there'd been this weird trend where none of the Life Skills teachers managed to last more than a year, for whatever reason. Riddle intended to show the superstitious idiots in the administration that there was no such thing as a position being _cursed,_ dammit. There wasn't such a thing as magic. What were they, stupid?

He stalked out of the room. The teacher didn't seem to notice that he had taken all his things with him, though Granger's eyes fixed on him in a disconcertingly shrewd manner. He didn't spare a glance back, hurrying down to the Entrance Hall. It was nine thirty, so most of the parties were in full swing. Lestrange usually went to the Den, but it was hard to tell with Longbottom – she alternated between Raven Club and the pool. If tonight was the night Lestrange aimed to get her – and it probably was – Riddle didn't have much time.

Oh, this was humiliating_._ Riddle realized that Granger had _tricked_ him – tricked him into believing it really was Caroline Longbottom who was also first. He hadn't thought there was an ounce of deceit in Granger's body. She always seemed so infuriatingly _bright _and _cheerful_, except when she was up in arms about something or other.

Riddle put Hermione Granger on his List. It was not a good List to be on. He would deal with her later, though – right then he needed to find Aquilus Lestrange.

Anyone happening to encounter him striding down that hallway would have been terrified by the murderous look on his face.

oOo

Hermione was in shock. Tom Riddle was skipping class? He'd just left the room, taking all his things with him – he was _skipping class_? And this was the boy who was tied with her for first in the class?

Anger flared in Hermione. Sure, the class was useless, but that didn't mean he could just _leave_.

Had it been something she'd said? He'd gone on that odd tangent, needing to borrow a phone all of a sudden – and that was another thing. Why didn't he have his phone on him? Everyone in this school had theirs attached to them, as if they were connected by some umbilical cord.

Well, that was a disgusting thought. Hermione sighed and turned back to her book, mentally tutting at Riddle. Skipping class, _honestly_... that had been a frequent occurrence back at Inner London, despite Hermione's constant efforts to get Harry and Ron to stop.

Oh, well. Hermione gave a small, resigned sigh. She could get Riddle to stop skipping class about as much as she had been able to stop Harry and Ron. If Riddle was anything like her friends, he would just tell her to stop worrying so much, or something. Which was ridiculous, because he had the same class rank as she did...

A dark scowl spread across Hermione's face, and she pressed the pencil down on the paper a little harder than necessary.

oOo

Riddle stopped at the Den door, facing Angus Crabbe. "Seen Lestrange?" Riddle asked.

"He hasn't come by tonight," Crabbe said. Riddle nodded and walked back the way he'd come. That meant he was already trying to get at Longbottom – of course he would be; Riddle had said "the sooner the better" –

Riddle pressed a button on the elevator, back ramrod-straight, hands folded behind his back, dark eyes burning. Granger would pay for making him have to do this – for making him feel embarrassment – for daring to have the same rank as he had.

Raven Club was in one of the towers. Riddle had been once or twice. He took a breath, calming himself, relaxing his appearance, and strolled through the archway into the large blue-draped commons.

"Riddle," greeted a voice on his left.

Riddle turned. "Oh, hello, Nick." Abbott had a friendly grin on his face, one that Riddle wouldn't have minded punching off. "I'm just looking for Caroline Longbottom," Riddle said, keeping his tone light and casual.

"I think she's down at the pool tonight," Abbott said. "But I know she's not at Huff'n'Puff, anyway. Sorry you came all the way up here."

Riddle laughed, the sound coming as easily as if it were genuine. "It's alright, man," he said. "That's what elevators are for, yeah?"

Abbott clapped Riddle on the shoulder. "Come back any time, though. We're going to watch _Annie Hall_ later, if you want to stop by again."

"Woody Allen?" Riddle chuckled. "Not really my scene. Thanks, though."

Abbott shrugged his broad shoulders. "Hey, I hope you find Caroline."

"Me too," Riddle called back with a grin as he walked through the arch. As soon as he turned the corner, his broad smile vanished without a trace, and his eyes narrowed. He yanked out his lighter, compulsively flicking it on and off. Of course he would choose the wrong place to go first.

He took the elevator to the first floor and hurried to the side door – though not, of course, deigning to run.

He arrived at the courtyard just in time to hear a shrill scream.

_Shit._

Then he ran.

oOo

Hermione sighed as the teacher opened the door. Those Weasley twins – Ron had mentioned he had a couple of second cousins here, neither of whom he'd met. They were so similar to Fred and George, though this pair weren't identical, of course.

She moved to catch up with them, feeling the sudden need to talk about Ron with someone – anyone – but she was interrupted by the echoes of screams from through the open window.

Hermione rushed to the window, sticking her head out. There was frantic murmuring from her classmates – "What's happening?" "Is something wrong?"

She could see directly over to the pool, which was only about a hundred feet away, just on the other side of the wall. The writhing mass of people was sending out a tangled collective shout. Hermione couldn't make out any specific words, but her heart pounded nonetheless. _What on earth is going on?_

Her first thought was fear for Zara and Mafalda's safety. They were both at the pool that night – and the ground would be slippery, and everyone was drunk, of course – this was _exactly_ why Hermione thought this type of thing was impractical –

She raced to the side door, dashed through the darkened courtyard to the pool area, and seized the first shoulder she could see. It was Trenton Bode's.

"Trent!" Hermione said over the clamor. "What on earth happened?"

Trent swayed a little, rubbing one eye. "I don't know. I think someone had a bad trip or something and just about drowned themselves in the deep end."

"What?" said Hermione, aghast. "Okay – I – thanks, one second -"

She shouldered her way through the crowd, keeping her eyes peeled for Zara or Mafalda. But her eyes found Tom Riddle instead.

"Tom!" she called over the ruckus. "What on earth -"

His face was the picture of shock. "I can't believe -" he started, but then a calm voice from beyond the crowd started to speak, and there was a great hush. As the voice spoke, Riddle spun around as if he had been hit by an electric shock.

"Please stay calm," said the voice, "and we'll get her out of here."

Hermione stared as Albus Dumbledore lifted an unconscious, waterlogged Caroline Longbottom from the ground. She was covered with a raw crimson rash. Dumbledore's expression was grave, but not quite concerned – wary.

As he moved through the crowd, the silent students parted like the Red Sea, darkness blurring their expressions. Two crying girls followed in Dumbledore's wake, consoling each other.

Once Dumbledore was gone, the mumbling started again, swelling into a great shout of people trying to talk over each other. Scuffling, bumping, yelling. The huge black speakers by the edge of the pool gave a deafening whine of feedback, and the people nearest the speakers howled in pain. The chaos escalated.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," snarled Riddle. Hermione stared. His hands were out of his pockets for once, his left hand curled in a fist, his right hand rummaging around in his bag. When his fingers emerged from his bag, they were wrapped around – was that a _gun_?

Hermione took in a sharp breath, terrified by not only Riddle's apparent weapon but also by the menace on his face, tempered by infuriation that by no means looked good-natured. He thrust his fist into the air and pulled the gun's trigger, and a bright green flare shot out of the tip with a colossal _bang._

Silence fell as immediately as if someone had cast a spell. All heads were turned to face Tom, who didn't look angry anymore, to Hermione's relief. He looked cold and businesslike.

"Everyone hear me?" His voice rang out, sharp, penetrating. "You're going to leave, quietly, in a single file line. Then you're going to go back to your rooms, and you're not going to come out until tomorrow. I don't care if it's only nine thirty. Someone nearly died tonight, and I swear to God the next person to spike someone's drink is going to have me to answer to." He took a deep breath and said, now in his usual quiet voice, "Goodnight."

There was a sort of quiet ripple through the crowd, and people turned to leave the courtyard. Hermione stared at Tom in awe. She'd never seen him like that before – he'd been bossy enough to make her proud.

"What exactly happened?" she asked.

Extreme irritation flashed across his face for half a second. "People are, apparently, idiots," he replied, his tone clipped. "Someone put some sort of hallucinogen in Caroline's drink, and she got pushed into the pool and presumably started thinking down was up. So now she's half-drowned, and as if that weren't enough by itself, the drug had – I don't know, some sort of chemical reaction to her."

"The rash," Hermione muttered. "I wonder if we can look up some sort of cure to that?"

Riddle's stiff expression slowly relaxed, and a bit of amusement even found its way into his eyes. "Granger, we've got a Nobel Prize for Medicine winner at this school. You have nothing to worry about." He glanced around, his eyes following the last of the crowd as they forged through the warm night air back to the school doors. "But if I find out what idiot decided to put that in someone's drink..."

"Well, frankly, I'm not surprised. I practically expected something like this to happen, what with all the drugs and alcohol and – and, well, general miscreant behavior around here."

Riddle could hardly keep himself from giving a derisive snort. Granger looked so authoritative, so snooty. Of course, she had probably never had a drink in her life. He distinctly remembered her saying that someone had "spiked her Coke."

Dislike flooded him as he looked down at the girl. He'd seen the look Dumbledore had been giving him – the _one_ thing Riddle didn't need right now was Dumbledore knowing he had caused this Longbottom attack, and it hadn't even been to good _use_. He was going to have Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Goddamn Dumbledore breathing down his neck for the next month, just as he had back with the Myrtle incident – and he was _still tied_.

"Well," Riddle said absentmindedly, but there were stirrings of a plan in his mind. All he needed to get Hermione Granger unseated from her work was to break her focus. She had been such a mess that day after her drink had been spiked – it was obvious it was _possible_ to unseat her from that overload of work she put upon herself. Just... rare.

Alternatively, he could just break _her._ Break each of those small fingers that gripped that overstuffed bag, break the spinal cord that enabled her obnoxiously potent brain to function –

"Want to go get something to eat?" Riddle said. She had to suspect none of his animosity, and what with her obnoxiously accurate powers of perception, that was going to be a bit more of a task than usual.

"Sure," she said. She looked a bit relieved. "I haven't eaten dinner yet."

"Why?" They made their way towards the side door.

"I was doing some reading and I lost track of time."

"You forgot to eat?" said Riddle, disbelieving.

She glanced up at him, her gaze frosty. "Yes." They made a left down a side corridor, then went down some steps, and Hermione looked around for a second, her eyes softening. Where were they, exactly? "Where are we going?"

"The Kitchens."

"You're allowed to just walk into the Kitchens?" Hermione said, a bit taken aback. If anyone ever walked into the kitchen at Inner London, the lunch ladies threatened them, brandishing steaming soup ladles. This had been doubly disturbing because no one ever knew what exactly went into the soup... but the food at Hogwarts was so delicious that a similar ladle wouldn't be much of a threat. Especially with how hungry Hermione was at the moment – she felt like someone had gouged out part of her torso.

But she also felt a bit sick. The Caroline Longbottom incident had disturbed her. Illegal activity was bad enough on its own, but now it had endangered someone's life. Hermione yearned to report it to a teacher. This type of thing didn't give her a good feeling, like back when she and Harry and Ron had started a secret society back in fifth year – no exciting rebelliousness. It felt _wrong_ to sit around and watch all these people get wasted.

"You can visit the Kitchens anytime," Riddle said. "You've just got to know how to get in, see."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Shouldn't I just open the door?" she said.

Riddle chuckled good-naturedly. "No door," he said, and stopped. There was a large painting on the wall, a bowl of fruit. He placed his palm over the pear, and after a few seconds there was a red glow under his fingers and a quiet _click_. "There," said Riddle. He pulled at the left side of the painting, and Hermione gaped as it swung outwards.

"Why on earth are the Kitchens _hidden_?" Hermione said, but she found her question answered when she and Tom entered.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to – he knew Hermione was thinking it, even if she was trying to keep herself from doing so. There were about fifty workers in an incredibly large hall. About a third of them were black; the rest were Asian.

Riddle shut the door behind him, looking down at Hermione with a bit of a smirk. He took off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder – the Kitchens were unbearably warm, as usual. After all, its inhabitants were used to a tropical climate.

"Illegal immigrants," he said.

Hermione stared before remembering that they could indeed see her goggling at them. Then she blinked and looked up at Tom, eyes wide and shimmering with utter disbelief. "We keep them _locked up_?"

Tom shrugged, and before he knew it, Hermione was shoving her way back through the portrait, dragging him by the elbow after her. She didn't feel hungry anymore. The sick feeling had overwhelmed her.

She slammed the portrait behind her, put her hands on her hips and stared up at Riddle in the most Molly-Weasleyish way she could. "This school employs illegal immigrants and keeps them holed up downstairs so that no one can see them?" Her voice was shaking. "Am I getting this right? Not only are we funneling money into people who aren't paying taxes, but -"

"We're not," Tom said lazily, and watched with enjoyment as the disbelief on her face swelled into outrage.

"We're not _paying them_?" she said loudly. "Are you serious? You've got to be joking – why aren't they just leaving?"

"They're grateful to Dippet," Riddle said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Look, all these people are on the run from the law. The fact that they're here means they're not getting put in jail or sent back to Gambia or Inner Mongolia or Hong Kong slums or wherever the hell they managed to get here from."

Hermione's mouth drooped open. "But – but – we're – this is _slavery_!"

"No, it isn't," scoffed Riddle, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "Dippet offers them pay when they get here. What the hell would they do with it? There's one in there who gets paid, 'cause he needs to send money back to Senegal for his family or something. The rest don't have any use for it. They stay indoors all the time. Anyway, most of them are damn terrified of getting sent back to where they come from – this place is more comfortable than anything they've ever had before, believe me."

Granger seemed to be turning into a demonic tomato. Blood was rushing to her face, and there was an insane, feverish glint in her eye. Tom held back amusement, finishing his explanation. "They're just glad they've found a place where no one's threatening to call the police, honestly. What're you getting so worked up about?"

That seemed to set her off. "IT'S JUST THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING!" she exploded. "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" Granger took a very deep breath. Another. Then she spoke again. "Do all the students know about this?" Her voice was dangerously soft, now, barely-restrained.

"Sure," chuckled Riddle. "Unlike you, they see why these people want to work here. Everyone's happy, so why aren't you? This is just the way it is, sweetheart."

"Don't," Hermione spat, "call me _sweetheart_." How dare he patronize her? How could he not see the issue with this? How could he be so – so _unscrupulous?_

Riddle rolled his eyes, straightening up. "Come on. Why do you care so much about people who haven't ever had anything to their name? A little money here and there isn't going to change the world's class system."

"A little money goes a long way, though I suppose you wouldn't know a thing about that," snapped Hermione. Riddle realized there was something very strange about that statement, but before he could register it fully, she was saying something far more interesting, and the first sentence flew completely from his mind. "You know," she said, "this is exactly the type of thing we're talking about in economics – the job market is being undercut by cheap foreign labor! Doesn't the word 'outsourcing' mean anything to you? It's not different just because they're sitting in our damn basement!"

A sort of shiver of realization zipped through Riddle.

That _essay._

Dear God, it had been _hers_! Jesus! It hadn't been Longbottom's at all – it had been Granger's all along – how had he let so _much_ about this girl slip right by his radar?

Her small form suddenly seemed a lot more formidable, now that he knew she was an opponent in every single way possible. And there was nothing worse than someone intelligent who was opposed to everything he stood for.

"Hey, calm down," Riddle said, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. He held back disgust at touching this – this _person_, the sympathizer to all things impractical. "Please calm down?"

Granger closed her eyes, swallowed, and appeared to be counting to ten. When she opened her eyes again, the rage had died away. "I don't like this, Tom," she said. The offhand way she used that name – that filthy_, common _name – infuriated Riddle. But she went on. "You see my point, right?"

_No, you idiot girl_. He didn't want to make an enemy of her – enemies were always suspect. How could he appeal to her without just outright agreeing? She'd probably be able to tell he was lying if he just said 'yes'...

Of course – he'd just appeal to that blindness every Hogwarts student had to the real world, outside the shelter of money.

"Look, Hermione, I get what you're saying. But honestly – all those workers in there are just more people at the bottom of the tier. In the end, they don't have enough influence for a difference in one of their lives to make any sort of real impact at all."

Hermione's face went very blank all of a sudden, a flicker of something there and gone before he could identify it. "Oh," she said. "I mean, I..."

She didn't seem to have the strength to finish the sentence. As Riddle watched her flounder for words, he was pretty sure he understood what was going on inside her head. Her moral senses were obviously conflicting with the fact that she didn't really know the meaning of financial troubles. Not like he did.

Riddle sighed. "Are you hungry or not?"

Granger nodded halfheartedly, and she suddenly looked so deflated and miserable that Riddle realized he felt bad for her. _Poor little rich girl._ Then the urge to sneer at himself rose, hot and choking, in his throat. "Come on," he said, opening the portrait again. "They don't speak any English, but I can translate for you. I know some Chinese."

"You know Chinese?" muttered Hermione. Of course he knew Chinese. What didn't he know?

Besides anything about her?

oOo

About half an hour later, they parted ways. The rest of their conversation had been fairly amiable, if subdued – and Riddle did indeed speak Chinese. But it seemed cheapened. Everything did.

Hermione felt sort of hollow as she went up to her room. Just for a second, there, she'd considered telling him everything. _I'm a scholarship student._ _I lied to Iris. A monetary difference in my life would make a hell of a lot of impact, thank you very much._

He was exactly the same as every other prejudiced Den kid.

And the gentle way he'd worded it, obviously expecting her to sympathize... It was sickening. Not that anything about him should have mattered to her – he was her opponent, after all, so she should have been trying to hate him as much as possible. Especially since he did things like smoking and drinking and sex and _skipping class_ and still managed to tie with her for first.

Well, he had really only skipped class once – tonight. Maybe it had been important. He had probably been texted to come help calm down the situation at the pool –

Wait, no, that wasn't right. He had borrowed someone _else's _phone, first of all, which was odd – and moreover, he'd left class before the panic had even started.

And he'd been at the pool. Why?

Hermione frowned, rolling over. He'd probably just heard the noise and rushed over, and happened to be in the area –

But no! Her class had been there only about twenty seconds after the commotion had started, because their classroom was so close, and Riddle had been buried deep in the crowd already. And he'd told her he never went to the pool unless he could help it. How the hell – what –

A jolt of utter panic jerked through Hermione. She gripped her sheets tight and curled up a little.

_Caroline Longbottom._

It had been Caroline's drink that had been spiked - he'd thought she was tied with him for first in the class – had Riddle just decided to remove her as a factor?

_Oh, fuck –_

This was insane. Hermione suddenly felt floundering, out of her depth, wishing things didn't piece together so neatly – then she could believe he was innocent – she could believe he was normal, not just out to get anyone that might stand in his way –

A cold chill shivered its way over her spine, and her stomach did a half-hearted somersault.

She'd told him she was his competition. She'd unveiled herself. She should _never_ have done that. But she'd thought they were becoming friends – _oh, my God, we have practically every class together, I can't avoid him –_

Hermione Granger yelled a word into her pillow. It was not a polite word.

Maybe she was just overreacting – yes, surely that was it, surely there was _some_ reason. She was just letting her emotions run away with her, that was all – that had to be all... She could figure this out rationally.

She'd have to pretend everything was okay. He couldn't know she suspected.

oOo

Riddle had the strange, nagging feeling that he was forgetting something important Granger had said, but he was still mulling over the fact that that essay was hers, so he put his mind from the unknown issue. He'd already decided to get rid of Granger, either in competition or just in general. That _essay –_

He'd have to pretend everything was okay. She couldn't know he suspected.

* * *

**x**

**x**

**x**

**Dun dun DAHH.**

* * *

**Anonymous replies:**

** Audrie:**

** Haha, you don't have to expect any more Skype scenes. So... obnoxious... to type the same phrase over and over... Thanks for your comments!**

** Artemis XIII:**

** First of all, your English is great. XD Far better than a lot of native speakers I know, haha. Second of all, thanks for your critiques! I tried to shape up on the out-of-character nature you mentioned in Hermione here. But I did want to clear one thing up – I'm definitely basing these people on new-money people I know, even though technically they're old-money. It says in the books that the Malfoys have white peacocks on their lawn – hardly the classy and understated nature of old-money folks, hmm. So if the old-money-new-money distinction is going to turn you off, as a forewarning, it's going to remain largely the same.**

** Again, thank you!**

** Kelly:**

** I'll look into Outsourced! I'm always on the lookout for a decent indie flick. :D And of course, thanks for your interest. :)**

* * *

** Please drop me a review! They make my day.**

**Thanks for reading!**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**


	7. EnRon

** Thanks for your patience, and of course, for your feedback:**

** Helen3616, Ossindie, ilikebluepineapples, toooldforthisshit (ahahhaha your name is awesome), CupcakeChan95, serendibite12, ilyena damodred, thesomnambulist, sweet-tang-honney, ClaireReno, november21, MissKaylala, Marion, Serpent in Red, murtagh799, mexicantt, Kelly, aaand MissImpossible! You guys are great, thanks so much for your thoughts and comments.**

**Some anonymous and/or general replies at the bottom as usual. Enjoy 7!**

** With love, as always,**

** Speechwriter.**

* * *

"How will I know when my package arrives?" Hermione asked.

Zara shrugged. Mafalda said, "It should get brought up to your room, unless it doesn't say the room number on the address."

Hermione bit her lip and looked down at her empty plate. She hadn't thought to type her room number on the email she'd sent her mother, and the package would already have been shipped by now. "Oh, dear." She paused a second. "Is there a place they keep mail that doesn't have that?"

"Sure," Mafalda mumbled, holding a hand up to her mouth in a vague attempt to conceal her chewing. She swallowed and continued, "Dippet redirects it to Dumbledore. He usually holds it until whoever needs it comes along to find it. You probably don't want to let him hold it for too long, though. Weird shit happens to stuff that stays in Dumbledore's office for too long..."

"Okay." So if her mother had mailed her new (or, well, used) mobile phone on Tuesday, that meant it should be there by Sunday or so. She made a mental note to drop by Dumbledore's office before anything too odd happened to it. After all, it would be the first mobile she'd ever had, made possible through the combined efforts of her grandparents and her parents. It would be such a relief not to have to borrow Zara's phone anymore.

Her stomach growled, and she was reminded of a more pressing issue all of a sudden. "You know, I found out something interesting yesterday," she said, staring mutinously at the breakfast table.

"Really?" said Mafalda. "Do tell."

"Yes. I went down to the Kitchens – Tom Riddle showed me how to get in – and, wouldn't you know it, they're filled with _illegal workers_." Hermione was pretty sure her voice was already angry, but she couldn't restrain herself.

"Mmhmm?" Mafalda mumbled through a waffle. She swallowed. "Your point?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and then narrowed just as quickly. "So, you knew," she said, and there was a definite accusatory note to her tone.

"Of course," said Mafalda. "Everyone knows."

"I didn't know," Zara interjected. "But... wait. You said Tom showed you? Did you... I mean, did you talk to him?"

Hermione glanced up at Zara furtively. "Yeah, sort of. Well, in essence, he said he wasn't exactly sure where the miscommunication happened, but that he never thought it was anything more between you two than something frivolous."

"He used the word 'frivolous'?" asked Zara, disbelieving. Then she seemed to realize what exactly Hermione had said, and she put down her fork with a gentle clatter. "This is awful. Oh my God. I can't believe I got to third base with a guy who never even thought we were going to date."

Hermione patted Zara's shoulder, but the gesture felt distant. There was a hollow look about Zara that Hermione didn't recognize, and she didn't know how to react. Hermione wasn't funny, like Ginny, or warm, like Harry. She wasn't approachable, like Ron. She had no idea what the hell to say, so she just waited for Mafalda to say something and wished she were somewhere else. In any case, she was glad that Zara would stop doodling 'Mrs. Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr.' all over any scrap of paper that happened to be in front of her.

Her mind wandered. The theory her mind had developed last night – Riddle attempting to dispose of Caroline – seemed almost farfetched in the bright light of day. Especially when she glanced over and saw Tom eating his breakfast. His face already had such good connotations to her – kindness, intelligence, associability – and she didn't want to relinquish the good thoughts she had about people.

Then she remembered what he really thought of poor people. Wasn't there a single person down in that Den who was normal? If it had been anyone, she could have sworn it would be Riddle. He just seemed different from the rest of them, separated. Even now, the other boys seemed distant from him – although, weirdly, they kept giving him dodgy glances. That was a bit odd...

Hermione cracked her knuckles and looked back at the dishes in front of her. Hunger strike was, perhaps, a bit excessive, but what else could she do? If everyone already knew about the workers in the Kitchens, and just wasn't choosing to do anything, how could she galvanize them into action?

A dark scowl spread across her face as she completely tuned out from Mafalda and Zara's conversation, although Hermione dimly registered that Zara was looking a bit more cheerful. _Dippet._ What a smarmy little – what a terrible – _argh_! It was just too much. He was setting such an abysmal example for all these young people who would inherit businesses of their families'. Such an apathetic attitude towards the rights of lower-class workers would engender that exact same irresponsibility in his students.

Hermione stood up sharply. "I'm going to go do some reading," she said. Her tone of voice was as deadly as if she'd said she was going to go kill someone, and Zara and Mafalda exchanged alarmed glances.

"Okay," Zara said timidly. Hermione stormed away, and they couldn't help but dissolve into helpless chuckles.

oOo

"Find out by one o'clock today," Riddle said.

Abraxas nodded. "Of course." He left without further question, shaking back his hair, leaving Riddle to wonder if he'd made the right choice. He'd asked Abraxas to find out who wrote that paper in economics. If it really _was_ Granger, Abraxas would discover that she was the enemy, would discover that she was Riddle's next target. But he was trustworthy, so it wouldn't matter. Hopefully. Unless Abraxas's impulsive side came out.

Riddle had to be sure that the paper was Granger's before he did something drastic, and even then it would not do to rush into things. Hadn't that turned out poorly last night? Riddle sighed and leaned against the wall, looking up at the dungeon ceiling. Where that impulsiveness had come from, he didn't know. It was probably the very notion that he could be outstripped that had triggered him. But it had been foolish of him. Uncharacteristic and foolish.

He'd seen the way Dumbledore had looked at him during breakfast. A steely blue-eyed glare, nothing to be trifled with. Dumbledore could probably destroy him, if he wanted to – all he needed to do was put a bad word in for Riddle. Dumbledore was so respected he could ruin Riddle's future – but he was such a firm believer in the _natural good of humanity_, the old bat ... Riddle could escape his scrutiny with a bit of work.

He stalked off to Chemistry, dreading coming into contact with Granger again. Oddly enough, he found himself worrying that she might blow his cover. Wasn't that a bit of a ludicrous idea? That she might see through the façade he had cultivated so carefully? No, she mustn't see what he didn't want her to see.

But, then, there was that itching ache inside him to make her know what it was like to be terrified of him. He had that itch with everyone he met, and it burned at that pride inside him to pander to the worthlessness of the people he came into contact with, but he couldn't let them know.

There was something about the self-righteous nature of Granger, though, that rubbed Riddle the wrong way. It made him thirst to cast away his good-kid act more than he'd ever wanted in the past. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she considered them almost friends. The idea was repulsive.

Maybe it was just the fact that she treated him like she would treat _anyone else._ After all, that was the worst insult he could ever receive. Teachers treated him like he was made of gold, girls treated him like a god, and boys... well, they seemed to understand that he was just naturally higher on the social tier than they would ever be, and that was that. But Granger! She treated him like he was _anyone_. Like he was disposable. _Replaceable._

His lip curled as he walked down the corridor to Slughorn's classroom. Yes, the idea of making her realize what he was fully capable of was tempting. So very tempting.

For the sake of everything he stood for, though – he couldn't let on. Having a competent rival was bad enough; a competent enemy would be disaster. Especially since he had a history, one that could be disastrous if revealed – it would destroy all his credibility –

"Good morning!"

He jumped. _Jesus Christ._ It was far too early in the day to be bombarded by a bright smile and that incredibly frizzy mass of hair... "Hey, Granger," Riddle said.

She had her chemistry notes out in front of her. They were furious and painstakingly detailed; her writing was tiny. "I've been meaning to ask you," Granger said, turning the notebook's page to a crisp blank sheet. "Are you going to that Slug Club thing?"

"Course," Riddle said, fiddling with the pencil behind his ear. "Slughorn's a great guy."

Hermione shot a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. "He's... interesting."

Riddle smirked a bit. "He used to teach Advanced, as well, so I've known him for a few years now. He's always been like this."

Slughorn started the class with a tremendous 'harrumph', his eyes twinkling benignly. "Pop quiz!" he exclaimed. Hermione sat up a little straighter in her seat, a sickening air of excitement coming from her. Riddle couldn't help but shoot her a disgusted glance, one she didn't notice. The overeager were so painful to watch.

Yes; in retrospect, it was easy to see how she'd sympathize with the teeming masses, the ones who had to work their fingers to the bone to get anywhere. After all, she worked herself way too hard. She never talked about anything relating to money, either... not like any of the other kids...

Riddle started the quiz, but that thought lingered in the back of his mind, making a slight frown of distraction appear on his face. Then, about halfway through problem three, he found himself drawing a violent and unintentional scribble through what he'd written, because he realized something.

He'd remembered what she'd said the night before. _A little money goes a long way, not that you'd know anything about that._

Yes. That was it. His mind had seized on what followed, but that was – that was – what the _hell_ was that even supposed to mean? _Not that you'd know anything about that._ Well, obviously, she'd assumed he was filthy rich, like everyone else in the place – but the phrasing. Not that you'd know anything about that ... a very telling phrase – one that implied she did know, one that implied she had extensive experience with the issue –

Riddle's grip tightened on his pencil, and he pressed it down so hard on the paper that the tip broke clean off. He reached into his bag and retrieved another, but his focus was disrupted. That cloud of brown hair next to him covered her face. Riddle felt the sudden desire to stare her in the eye and demand to know what she had meant by saying that. How could she possibly know anything about not having money, if she was here?

His eyes strayed down to her shoes. Worn brown boots. Come to think of it, she did seem to wear those rather a lot. In fact, her clothes were hardly spectacular in the least. He'd thought that she was intentionally understating her style to make an ironic point, or something similar to satisfy that snobbish-intellectual nuance of her character... but no, it made sense now...

Riddle's hand filled in the answer to the problem, then the next, then the next. She finished before he did, which was hardly surprising given that he was having to reread every question just to get it past this sudden blockade of fascination.

He placed his pencil quietly on the table, and she glanced over at him. There was an odd expression on her face, one he didn't recognize, and at that second Riddle realized exactly how very little he could read her.

He had completely underestimated the girl.

It incensed him further. He blinked and flipped his paper over, carefully restraining his every motion. His fingers drummed on the table, letting the frustration seep out. There was some answer that was eluding him as to her. Some missing puzzle piece.

The most immediately apparent answer was so simple he nearly discarded it: Hermione Granger was poor, brilliant, and a scholarship student. But before he discounted it completely for just being ridiculous, he forced himself to admit that it had merit. In fact, it explained everything that needed explaining, and more. Her sudden defensiveness whenever money was brought up; her desire not to bring it up herself; her haughty, self-righteous, silent air when the evils of hierarchical society were brought up in economics...

Riddle bit down gently on his tongue, mulling over the issue. If she was the first scholarship student since him... if she was the first student since him bright enough to be admitted without having a big name behind her...

Well, then, something needed to be done, didn't it?

Hermione was busy wondering, too. Riddle was inscrutable, as usual. She really knew nothing about him besides the superficial; could she be convinced of his innocence?

What she really needed to do, of course, was some good old-fashioned research. Or, perhaps, not old-fashioned. More... exploratory. She needed to learn everything there was to learn about him if she was going to topple him, after all. And if she was going to prevent herself from meeting the same fate as Caroline – if he had indeed caused it – she'd need some protective measures.

oOo

"I don't like this," Harry announced.

Hermione winced and held the phone away from her ear. "Honestly, calm down. I'm not sure of anything at the moment, but it's enough to get a bit suspicious, I think."

"Yeah, I agree," Ron's voice said firmly. "Hermione, I don't want you getting hurt by some bloke who's insane about his grades. I don't care if you need to get second in the class, just stay safe."

Hermione scoffed. As if that could happen on her watch. "No, I'm going to be first. I just – _oh!_" She took a deep breath. "Have I told you about the Kitchens?"

The proceeding conversation was very one-sided and long-winded, involving lots of vague 'yeah' and 'uh-huh's from the other side of the phone. Neither Harry nor Ron seemed as outraged as Hermione felt they should be, but it felt good to vent nonetheless.

In the end, she let out a long sigh and finished, "I don't know what to do, but I think I'm going to talk to a teacher about it."

"That's a good idea," Harry said absentmindedly.

Hermione flopped over on her bed, checking the battery on Zara's BlackBerry. "Okay, Zara's phone's about to die. I'll talk to you soon, though, alright?"

There was some crackling as Ron wrested the phone away from Harry. "If anything bad happens," he said fiercely, "just call us and we'll get you pulled out of there. And don't poke around for dirt on this bloke too much – I've got a bad gut feeling about this, and -"

The phone died. Hermione looked at it blankly for a second, then tossed it on the bed and groaned into her arms. It had been so difficult trying to suppress everything she'd wanted to ask Riddle that day. Of course, though, if she'd come out and asked, "Hey, are you some sort of vengeful psychotic?" it might not have gone down too well.

Hermione pulled out a sheet of paper and started a list. A list of people she could ask about Riddle, a list of things she could ask those people about. Oh, and she could do some research on his family history, using the library database. That could take precedence; she was far more familiar with libraries than with the students of Hogwarts.

She hurried down to the library.

oOo

Riddle sifted through the papers, found the number he was looking for, and added a zero or two. _There; that should do it._

Finalizing this entire business had been a bit of a pain, but it would be worth it in the end. VoldeMart had endless smaller sub-companies and affiliates, everything from the Rosier-Dolohov Water Filtering Company to Marked Dark Electricity Inc. – however, there was something strange about a couple of these smaller businesses.

Take Marked Dark Electricity Incorporated: According to the records that Riddle was holding, it supplied electricity to several hundred factories and stores (all VoldeMart-owned, of course) around the world. However, for some reason, the company wasn't being charged for its utilities, or for the generation of its electricity. Also, none of the supplied locations seemed to be using any electricity from Marked Dark. The result? The money this company was given by VoldeMart to run itself was funneled in through a complex sequence of accounting stratagems, and Marked Dark Electricity Incorporated was suddenly left in possession of several hundred millions of dollars, and nothing to use it on. Fancy that.

Of course, Riddle mused, the fact that Marked Dark Electricity Inc. didn't exist was probably one of the chief reasons for this bizarre accounting blip. He smirked and flipped through the pages to a few other fictitious companies. He and the CFO, a very crafty (if old and blinding) sort named Mulciber, had spoken about this at length for the last couple of weeks. Marked Dark was owned, supposedly, by an affiliate – one Belvina Black. This was perhaps a bit illogical, given that Belvina Black had been dead for four or five years, but she was still voting for the Labour Party and still giving sizeable donations to various political and economic causes, so, hell, why not give her her own business?

Anyway, it was all very neatly tied up now. Sure, it was a bit embarrassing having to create certain numbers to claim a quarterly gain, but why not? There would be a legitimate gain next quarter, anyway, with the big buy Riddle was planning.

He felt like some sort of evil laughter was appropriate, but in the end it felt strange to smile of his own volition, so Riddle just took a Sharpie and carefully blacked out his name from every paper on which it was listed. Then he tied a string around the papers, put them in an envelope, put that envelope in a box, put that box in another box, duct-taped it shut, and wrapped it twice. Lastly, he put on the return sticker that Mulciber had created for him, which listed the Hogwarts return address – no room number, of course – and the shipping address.

Riddle started to walk down to the office to send it off by Hogwarts Mail. First-class, of course. Anything else would not do.

oOo

Well, that was very odd. Hermione bit her lip, frowning. She couldn't find any sort of 'Riddle' listed under the donors to the school in the last ten years, even though there was anyone else she could possibly imagine. Malfoy, Johnson, Hopkirk, Avery, Abbott, Bode, Longbottom, Weasley, Parkinson, Zabini, Black – but no Riddle.

She narrowed her eyes at the list, as if it were intentionally attempting to deceive her. Maybe the donation was made under his mother's name or something, although that would have to mean that his mother had kept her maiden name. But there was no way to...

_Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr._ If he was Junior, his father's name was the same as his. Hermione slid into a computer chair in front of one of the resident Dell desktops and navigated over to Google. _Tom Riddle_ yielded a few million results. That was inconvenient.

She blew her hair out of her eyes and typed in Riddle's middle name – Marvolo. That definitely narrowed things down. The first result was a brief local marriage announcement between one Tom Riddle, son of Lucia and George Riddle, and one Merope Gaunt, daughter of Marvolo and Adrastia Gaunt. There was a small picture, a very bizarre picture.

Hermione peeked over her shoulders once before hunching over the computer screen and clicking the link. The marriage announcement revealed that the couple had eloped from a small town called Little Hangleton to London, and said little else; the picture, however, was far more telling.

Tom Riddle, Sr., looked highly inebriated. Merope Gaunt was clutching onto his arm, staring up adoringly at him, but he looked almost too drunk to stand. Hermione noticed that the wedding ring on Merope's left hand looked a lot like plastic.

There was little else of interest to be gleaned from the article, so Hermione clicked back to the search results. After narrowing down the search using the other names she'd found, nothing else popped up. Hermione decided she would go back to that list of donors and see if a 'Gaunt' had made any recent donations, because God knew if a child got into trouble for doing something against the rules the first thing a rich parent would do would be to throw money at it –

But something caught her eye. It was buried deep, the seventh page of results for Riddle's father's and father's grandparents' names.

It was from that same newspaper, the Little Hangleton newspaper. Saved in the archives. It was from only two years ago. And when she read the headline, it was like something heavy whacked her in the stomach.

Hermione clicked on it, feeling dazed. The article – no, the _obituary – _did nothing to clear the horrified feeling from her stomach. In fact, it made her feel sick. _What – dear God – what –_

She felt transfixed in place for a second, and then she looked around the library, as if this were some sort of horrible joke, as if someone was going to leap out at her and say, "Surprise! We're just screwing with you, Hermione! How could you ever believe that Tom Riddle's father and grandparents were dead?"

But no.

Hermione's hazel eyes blurred with how fast she read the article. It mentioned nothing at all about Riddle's mother...

Apparently Riddle's father and grandparents had run out of money about a year prior to their deaths through some freak local bank closure – the bank at which Tom Riddle, Sr. had worked – and with any and all assets liquidated, their tiny house had been foreclosed. They'd spent the last year of their lives in utter destitution, then frozen to death in the winter.

Hermione stared in horror. What – how – _how_ –

There were so many things that were wrong with this that she didn't even know where to begin. First of all – Riddle's father had died _homeless_? How the hell was he affording to go to Hogwarts? Either there was a very messy divorce involved and Merope Gaunt happened to be astronomically wealthy, or... or Tom Riddle was even poorer than she was.

It was probably his mother – although it was strange they didn't mention her in the article.

Hermione's sharp eyes combed every description of Tom Riddle, Sr., in a hunt for some small mention of divorce or something, but there was none. It was as if Merope Gaunt had never even existed. Or Tom Riddle, Jr., who wasn't mentioned either. Why wouldn't the paper mention his son? Did they even realize he had a son? It didn't say a word about descendants – not a thing –

Also, this article was back in Little Hangleton, although the married couple had eloped to London and taken all their possessions with them, according to that other snippet –

_Dead._

Hermione had never lost anyone close to her. Her mother's parents had died when she was only seven, and her father's parents were still alive. She'd never had a friend die – never had anyone she knew personally to leave the world. The closest thing had been the incident with Cedric Diggory – a terrible accident in a football tournament, and she'd only known him by association.

Tom Riddle had lost his father _and_ his grandparents.

Hermione felt a swell of sympathy blend with the horror, which was subsiding into a sort of numbness. He _was_ different. She hadn't been imagining it – he knew more about the life of the poor than anyone else in the Den – but –

"_But honestly – all those workers in there are just more people at the bottom of the social tier. Seriously, in the end, they don't have enough influence for a difference in one of their lives to make any sort of real impact at all."_

What the hell was wrongwith him? That was his own father he was talking about – his own dead father –

Unless he didn't know? Was that even feasible in the slightest, that he might be so estranged from his father that he might not know or care what happened to him?

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, staring at the paper's picture of Tom Riddle, Sr. with utter consternation. Tom was his spitting image; there was no mistaking it.

"Shit," Hermione muttered to herself, burying her hands in her wiry hair.

"Language!" exploded a sharp voice from behind her, and Hermione spun around.

"Oh, I'm sorry – I'm sorry," she said meekly to the librarian, who was giving her a truly fearsome stare. After a couple seconds, the lady stalked away, and Hermione let out a long breath.

So much didn't add up about Riddle. Why didn't anyone know that his father was dead?

She felt a bit bashful, then. Of course, no one else would have bothered to be so nosy about him. Then the bashfulness faded into downright self-disgust. She'd gotten completely off-topic. She'd just wanted to see if he'd tried to get rid of Caroline Longbottom, not his entire family history... even if it was intriguing... and shocking...

She couldn't talk about it with him. No. Definitely not; that was out of the question. He couldn't know she knew this much about him! It would be humiliating, first of all, and downright stalker-ish, second of all.

Hermione deleted the browsing history before leaving, shaking her head. That research session had been entirely too informative for her liking.

oOo

Before Hermione knew it, she'd worked away half the weekend, and the Slug Club dinner loomed. "It's not terribly formal, is it?" she asked Mafalda.

"It's about as formal as this place gets," she said. "Listen, Hermione, you've got to get something to wear for it, if you don't have anything fancy and you want to get invited back. Josiah Zabini told me that Calista Greengrass wore jeans to a Slug Club dinner and Slughorn wouldn't even talk to her after that."

Hermione spluttered. "Are you serious? That is so... Slughorn is so _weird_."

"You're telling me. Seriously, though – ask Zara to borrow something. From what I've heard, it's not so much a dinner as some sort of weird microcosmic formal dance."

Hermione stared at Mafalda in disbelief, but her friend's blue eyes were completely serious. "So, what, am I supposed to have a date or something?" she scoffed.

Mafalda chortled. "Knowing Slughorn, probably. Don't worry about that, though. I haven't heard anyone talking about dates like those are important."

"Thank you, oh beacon of wisdom," Hermione deadpanned, and Mafalda grinned.

"I do what I can," the blonde sighed, and clapped Hermione hard on the shoulder. "Okay. Let's go find Zara and get you fixed up."

oOo

Abraxas' news had not surprised him. The paper had indeed been Hermione Granger's. The worst of it, though, was that Riddle had just heard from the school nurse that Caroline Longbottom was being sent home for more intensive treatment on her allergic reaction. Lestrange swore it wasn't poison, though, and Riddle was inclined to believe him, given the pain he'd used to exact an answer.

Riddle sighed and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, flicking the lighter into a flare of heat. The cool rush of nicotine soothed him.

He wasn't surprised by Abraxas' reaction, either. He'd had a very typical sneer on his face. It was clear that he and Granger weren't going to be anywhere near friendly anymore. And if Riddle's hunch was right – if Granger really was a scholarship student – then there wouldn't be any hope for her in the Den at all. Not once people knew.

Then again, he wasn't sure he wanted to leak that out to the general public. Not when he was also on scholarship. Riddle didn't know why, but it made him feel uneasy even talking about the concept of being on scholarship.

He sighed and straightened his tie, dark green Italian silk under a pressed Joseph Abboud suit. It was all Abraxas', so the pants were just a bit too long, but it wasn't exactly visible, and otherwise, it fit well. Slughorn's favorite color was green, too.

How could he find out if Granger was actually a scholarship student? Not that he really needed any more reason just to crush her under his foot, but with someone so insecure, it would be far simpler to do it socially than with physical coercion. Especially now that she'd proved she was just about as resilient to drugs and alcohol as a cockroach was to death.

Riddle felt like he'd turned back the clocks sixty years as he appraised himself in his mirror, smoothing his hair down. He looked, if he did say so himself, like a classic gentleman from the 1940s. His hair was now in its natural state, a dark, perfect wave, two strands falling over his forehead, and his serious features were cheerless.

The girl was easy to fluster. It wouldn't be that hard to catch her off-guard, now that he was trying. And, hell; if need be, he could find some way to hack into the computer mainframe and just find out that way what her financial circumstance was exactly.

oOo

Hermione walked into the Chemistry classroom and her face screwed up in surprise. She wobbled a bit in her heels, which were modestly low, but she wasn't exactly used to heels of any sort, and the classroom really did look different. Colored lights were draped about, and the desks all seemed to have vanished, to Hermione's dismay, replaced by covered tables.

Slughorn bounced over to her with a silly grin on his face. "Ms. Granger! Delightful! Help yourself; the food is over there – I really would like to introduce you to a former student of mine, a little later – he should be here in about an hour – go on, yes, that's right, eat, eat."

Hermione smiled and hurried away. To her displeasure, Abraxas Malfoy lurked about by the refreshments, wearing a white suit that made him look even more like an albino than usual. She hesitated for a second – she really didn't feel like she could handle any awkward encounters that day.

But hunger overcame her, and she bustled over to the table, helping herself to the food.

"Hey," Malfoy said, and his voice had some strange note to it that she didn't like. Not at all.

"Evening."

"How're you doing?" asked Abraxas, his eyes not moving from her face. Definitely a weird look.

Hermione finished filling her plate. The food smelled delicious. "Ah, alright, I suppose," she said, and then, to her immense relief, Iris Parkinson waved to her from across the room, beckoning her over. "I'll, er, see you later." She hurried over to Iris.

"Thank you so much," Hermione sighed. "I don't know how to talk to that guy."

"Why?" Iris laughed. "It's just Abraxas. He's, like, a complete goof."

"I just always feel like he's judging me." Which was, of course, true. Especially now that Abraxas seemed to be eyeing her from across the room. What was with him?

Iris glanced over at him. "Oh, well. No accounting for boys. You look great, by the way. I love the dress."

Hermione looked down at herself and grinned sheepishly. She didn't look bad – a knee-length black dress, fitted from the strapless bust to the waist, then chiffon to the knees. It was borrowed from some girl Zara knew. Also, though Hermione's hair was not entirely tamed, it was at least calmer than usual due to the help of some weirdly spelled shampoo Mafalda had.

Iris, of course, looked stunning. She wore a slinky silver dress and heels that were possibly higher than Hermione's entire body.

A voice came from behind Hermione, and she jumped. "Oh my God!" it said.

Josiah Zabini also looked fantastic, albeit frantic, clad in white.

"What?" Iris said.

"Did you hear about Caroline?" Josiah said.

Hermione felt herself stiffen. "No. What?" she asked.

"She's getting sent home," said Josiah. The tone of horror in her voice clearly indicated that this never happened.

"What? Why?" said Iris.

"She had some allergic reaction, remember? And now she's gone home so she can get better. Oh my God; whoever did it is going to get in _so_ much trouble."

Hermione was silent. Would anyone confess to it? It would probably mean expulsion – suspension at the very least...

"Well, at least she's still, like, alive," mumbled Iris. There was a pregnant pause.

Josiah burst out, "God, this place is so _creepy_ sometimes! After Myrtle, I thought about just leaving. I don't know..."

Hermione frowned. Myrtle? "Wait – who's Myrtle?"

Iris rounded on Hermione with a grave look. "Myrtle was a girl who died here in our fifth year," she said quietly. "It got pretty hushed up, and no one ever talks about it, but they were thinking of shutting the school down and everything."

Hermione swallowed. "Oh. Wow." More death? More odd happenings at Hogwarts? All of a sudden she just wanted to go back to London, back where everything made sense, or even just up to her room, where she could wear her cheap, comfortable clothing and huddle in her bed and read a book. Everything felt far too big for her in that moment, and that feeling only intensified when a hand laid itself lightly on her shoulder and she somehow knew exactly who it was.

When she turned around, her mouth got extremely dry. Riddle was standing just a little closer than was customary for standard interaction, and that slight difference in distance seemed to be sucking all the air out of the room.

Whatever he usually did to his hair was noticeably absent. It was sleek, now, and smooth, and the tuxedo on his tall body somehow seemed to emphasize how utterly at-ease he was.

Hermione took a step back, forcing herself to look as disinterested as possible. "Hello."

"Hey," Riddle said, addressing all three girls. "What're you talking about? Sorry to interrupt." He flashed them a lazy smile, and Hermione felt like each of them had the same embarrassing reaction. Namely, going weak at the knees. _So... unfair..._

"Caroline," Josiah said.

Riddle shook his head, looking utterly disgusted. "Sodding idiots."

"It's ridiculous," Iris sighed.

"I just don't understand why they'd do it," Hermione muttered, trying to sound as if she was speaking practically to herself. "I mean, who'd want to drug Caroline?"

Riddle shrugged. "It probably wasn't meant specifically for her. I mean, come on – your drink got spiked, right?"

Hermione nodded slowly. Well, that was true... but... but Caroline's case had been so much more severe. The two instances didn't quite match up.

As she looked into Riddle's face, she found herself thinking of that article, thinking of his father. She wondered how, if he knew, he could stand it day-to-day. How could he live in luxury knowing what poverty did to people? How could he defend the mistreatment of the immigrants in the Kitchens knowing what destitution could do?

"You okay?" Riddle said.

Hermione blinked and jerked herself back to reality. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Is it the suit?" he asked quietly, that smile lingering on his lips.

Hermione snorted. "Sure, Riddle," she said, dripping sarcasm. It felt forced.

Suddenly, she wondered how it had been so easy before, talking with him, feeling like they were almost _friends_. She'd known nothing about him. There was so much more to Tom Riddle than met the eye – and surely not all of it was good – and now she couldn't revert to that facsimile of normalcy. She'd never been the best actress, of course. Just stubborn, and that wasn't good for subtlety. No.

"Oh my God!" squealed Josiah all of a sudden. "It's _Lily Allen!_"

Hermione had no idea who Lily Allen was, but Iris had a reaction largely similar to Josiah's, and suddenly they were both flouncing over to the entrance, where Slughorn was very warmly greeting a pretty dark-haired woman dressed in green.

Hermione steeled herself and looked back up at Riddle. He shrugged. "Never heard of her."

"Me neither," Hermione said.

"You look great, by the way," added Riddle, and Hermione smiled a bit, although now that she was in that frame of mind she wondered if he had some sort of motive for saying it...

She replied, "You do too. I do actually like the suit."

"Abboud," Riddle said with a smirk, shoving his hands in the pockets of the jacket and leaning against the wall.

Hermione had no idea who or what that was, but the way he said it clearly read that it held some sort of significance. She raised her eyebrows and said, weakly, almost sarcastically, "Oh. Love her."

"Him," laughed Riddle. "Jesus, Granger, you're so bizarre. How the hell do you get through high-society life not even knowing who Joseph Abboud is?"

"I manage. It's not required protocol for existence." She pulled at the bottom of her dress.

Riddle's eyes fixed on the small movement, and he nodded in the general direction of the dress. "Not yours?" he asked.

_Damn, he's perceptive._ "No. Didn't bring any dresses – I didn't really think we'd be having anything like this here." But for the first time, talking with Riddle, she felt sort of... sort of threatened, like she was trying to evade something in his questions. Was it just her, or was there a preying edge to everything he was saying? He couldn't have caught on, could he? How would he have found out?

Oh, God – had Zara told him? Would she do that? Zara – God help her – wasn't the most tight-lipped of girls; what if she'd let slip to Riddle at some point – what if he knew –

No, though; he'd just referenced, just now, her being a high-society kid. But had he just been trying to get it out of her himself?

Her mind raced as she looked at him, unable to do or say much more.

"Granger," he said suddenly, "I'd like to ask you something."

* * *

**x**

**x**

**x**

**Woohoo cliffhanger. Sort of.**

* * *

**Review replies:**

**Marion:**

** Haha, no, I don't speak French. Wish I did, 'cause it's a beautiful language, but no. As of now, also, this fic is probably looking at topping out around... er. God. 20 chapters? Possibly shorter, probably not longer. The plot, convoluted as it is, will take a while to evolve and hopefully it'll turn out the way I want it to with a culmination around 20. :D**

**Ossindie:**

** Why, I plan to make it a conglomerate of angsty romance and political/economic commentary and also commentary on the destructive apathy and carelessness of youth! XD this is if everything pans out well. We'll see, I guess... but yeah, I anticipate the emphasis to fall on eco/pol given that the focal point of the premise is the whole VoldeMart thing. Hmm.**

**Ilikebluepineapples:**

** Yes. That was a definite allusion to Wal-mart's genderfail. XD The actual case is, what, Dukes v. Wal-Mart, so I thought Hazzards v. Voldemart was an appropriate parallel, bahaha.**

**Thesomnambulist:**

** Yes, God help me, calculus. DX**

* * *

** Thank you so much for reading. I'll see you guys in the next update – hopefully the next one will be faster! The show I'm in, though, closes this weekend, so that'll free me up considerably.**

** All my love,**

** Speechwriter.**


	8. Random House Cup

**Sorry for the delay. I really am. These last weeks have been entirely harrowing.**

**Anyway, NaNoWriMo is up and running. That's the main reason for this temporary hiatus. For anyone who doesn't know, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month and it's how I spend every November – writing 50,000 words in 30 days. XD You should check it out if you're inclined towards the creative writing world. It's really fantastic.**

**That aside – thanks so much for your interest and your support. I really appreciate knowing that, somewhere out there, this fic is being read and enjoyed.**

**All my best,**

**Speechwriter.**

* * *

"Oh, really?" said Hermione. "And what would that be?"

Her mind was racing. There were so many possibilities – it could be something completely innocuous, of course, although that would hardly merit an introductory 'I'd like to ask you something'. But she was more than a bit nervous about the possibility that it might pertain to something he wasn't supposed to know... something... anything...

"Are you seriously that worried about the workers in the Kitchens?" Riddle asked, a careful look coming across his face. "You seemed sort of upset when we were talking about it, so, you know, thought I'd ask."

Hermione heaved an inward sigh of utter relief. Thank God. She straightened up a little. "Well, yes. Yes, I am."

"Okay. Well, then, I thought I'd just go ahead and tell you that there's nothing in the school rules against petitions. Or protest groups. Or anything like that. I checked."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You... checked?"

"Yeah. Something wrong?"

She waved a hand. "Well, no. Nothing's _wrong_, exactly. I just..." Hermione sighed and finally just let her bewilderment show. "You didn't seem to care at all, Thursday night."

Riddle shrugged his slim shoulders. "I mean, I don't, really, but I respect the fact that you do. It's cute."

Hermione's face prickled uncomfortably. "Oh?" she said lamely, and cleared her throat. "Well, I actually had already checked the rules. I was planning on getting badges, though, and I wasn't sure if section 4B of the solicitation clause in the student code of conduct would prohibit -"

"Nah," interrupted Riddle, an amused smirk on his lips. "Don't stress. You know the stuff that goes around this school – no one's gonna get up in arms over human rights badges."

"Well... well, I suppose, but you can never be too careful." She glanced over at Abraxas Malfoy, who lurked most conspicuously in her peripherals. "Okay," she said in a low voice. "Something really odd is up with Malfoy. When I said hello to him, he was looking at me like I was doing something terrible."

_Doing something terrible. _The phrase made something click in Riddle's mind, and his stomach lurched with excitement. That was it. _That_ was how he could get rid of her! Oh, of _course_ – the ambitious new student, worried about class rank, obviously caring too much...

He needed to frame her.

His mind reeled with sudden possibilities. This could fix everything! Brilliant – now if only she hadn't been in class when it had happened... Of course, it could have been entirely possible for her to ask someone to do something to Caroline Longbottom, as Riddle actually had.

And, if she got expelled, it would ruin any chance she had at getting into university. She would be out of the public eye forever – a far better result than just physically harming her, as tempting as that possibility was.

Riddle was studying her face a little too intently, he realized. He blinked and glanced over at Malfoy, who was now talking to Aquilus Lestrange. "Malfoy gets... weird about people. I hope he hasn't randomly decided to hate you. He does that to people sometimes, and it's obnoxious."

Hermione sighed. "Not the most rational of sorts, then?"

"He usually has a reason, but it's still annoying as shit. Usually he looks down on kids who have a poor parent. There are quite a few of those, and Abraxas is... he's sort of a purist."

"A purist?" Hermione repeated, the word feeling filthy out of her lips. "What on earth is _that_ supposed to mean?"

A small smirk appeared on Riddle's lips. "Well, he thinks Hogwarts should be more exclusive," he said.

"_More_ exclusive? Are you serious? If you have enough money to go here, you should be able to. And that's a small enough number of people as it is. Honestly."

Riddle observed her getting worked up. Purism was his philosophy, too, of course. Anyone who was related to someone as idiotic as his father had been just _couldn't_ deserve to enter the halls of Hogwarts. They shouldn't even have had enough money to go, if they only had one rich parent, or if they had none at all... no, they should have been staying at home in their moderately-sized houses being moderate in all aspects, including education. The best schools should always have been reserved for the best families.

Of course, that half-worthy group of people, despite some similarity to Riddle, didn't quite include him, given that he was directly descended from one of the four Founders of Hogwarts. Slither's Den fondly got its nickname from Salazar Slytherin, who had always favored a strictly legacy-given system of entrance. After all, Hogwarts was the bridge to high and mighty places in the world, and the country couldn't have random people littering the ranks of the wealthy like they actually _deserved_ to be there.

Riddle was a bit disconcerted by the look that passed across Granger's face just then. It was sort of wary, but also a bit sad. Like she was remembering something bad.

He was struck by curiosity. What was she remembering? Was she remembering going to public school, amidst all those destitute people? Surely she didn't _miss_ it, not when she wasn't even supposed to be at _Hogwarts, _the ungrateful little –

"Riddle," Hermione said carefully, "I, um," but then music started to play. It looked as if Slughorn had hired a string quartet, accompanied by a pianist – was that Lang Lang? – and they were slowly settling into a waltz. Hermione glanced back around. "Oh. That's nice."

"Don't know where Sluggers gets his musicians," yawned Riddle, but he was inwardly frustrated. He had planned to make a graceful exit before this point, because now the only gentlemanly thing to do would be to ask her to dance, and that was an unpleasant notion to entertain. She looked about twenty times as unsteady in those two-inch heels as Iris Parkinson was in her four-inch ones. Riddle anticipated much foot-stepping in the near future. And now, sure enough, to his dread, he saw a slightly expectant look come over Granger's face. _Fine, let's get it over with..._ "So, you want to dance?" Riddle said.

"Did I say that?" replied Hermione coolly.

It took Riddle by surprise, and he gave an involuntary chuckle. "Well, fine, then," he said, raising his hands defensively.

Hermione smiled. It was a pretty smile, Riddle realized. She wasn't bad_-_looking, really... just sort of _there_. "Well, I wouldn't mind a dance," she said.

Riddle held out his hand, and was a bit surprised to feel a shiver itch its way up his arm as she placed her hand in his. It was probably disgust. The shroud of mystery that surrounded Granger made him uneasy. Well, the good thing about a dance was that he could think without being pressured to talk. All he had to do was hold eye contact with Granger, and she probably wouldn't want to _disturb the moment_ or whatever it was girls thought about while dancing.

As they started to dance, though, Hermione wondered about Riddle's father. Riddle had said that Abraxas, on principle, disliked people with any parent who wasn't well-to-do. Yet... yet Riddle himself...

So, Riddle obviously hadn't told Abraxas about his father. Which either meant he had told no one, or that he didn't know. And Hermione, despite herself, wanted to know which it was. But, more than that, she _needed_ to know if he was the type of boy who would drug a girl and try to drown her. The ultimate question, too, of course – would he do the same to her? Hermione needed to keep suspicion off herself. The last thing she needed was more reason for a potential attacker to hate her, and if he was as classist as she was inclined to believe, he could _not_ find out about why she had transferred from Inner London.

Damn VoldeMart. If not for the company, she would be sitting at home right now, or having dinner with the Weasleys and Harry, a comfortable valedictorian. None of this danger... and what had they been talking about, with that Myrtle girl? Someone had _died_ here? Hermione needed to read up on that – find some information on the circumstances surrounding it...

How could she best keep Riddle's eyes off her background? It wouldn't do to get into any more discussions with him about economics, which was unfortunate, because it meant she would have to hold her tongue in class, and God knew that would cause her physical pain.

Ignoring him all of a sudden would be far too suspicious, now that they were well-acquainted. Unless she played it off as just redoubling her studying efforts... but that would remind him of the fact that she was tied with him, which was counterproductive. Dammit – she should never have gotten mixed up with him in the first place!

He wasn't a great dancer. Finally, something Tom Riddle wasn't just naturally _perfect_ at. His casual air had dissolved into a stiff, awkward formality. In fact, Hermione was decidedly better at the waltz than he was, and it gave her a childish satisfaction, somehow.

Hermione yawned, and took her hand from his warm grip to cover her mouth for a second. "Sorry."

"Are you really that bored?" said Riddle, cocking his head. A strand of dark hair fell from the impeccable sweep atop his forehead, and Hermione's eyes strayed to it.

"Dancing isn't terribly exciting," Hermione sighed, though now that she was focusing on it, it was far more stimulating. The gentle touch of his hand on her hip, the warm friction between their other hands, the small distance between them... Yes, it was nice.

"You're a good dancer," Riddle said. "Where'd you learn?"

Hermione shrugged. "Just here and there, I suppose. I used to take ballet classes when I was really young, but then my parents -" She lapsed into silence, her tongue suddenly feeling made of stone. She'd nearly let it slip that her family had stopped being able to afford anything extra by the time she was six. And now she couldn't think of anything to say, and his dark eyes were probing.

"Your parents...?"

Hermione averted her gaze. "I don't want to talk about it," she said in a small voice, hoping the implication of some tragic event would deter him.

"Oh," Riddle said, his tone taking on the weight of sympathy. "Okay." Of course, he hadn't bought it at all – breaking off mid-sentence like that was very telling, and that look in her clear brown eyes hadn't been one of dejection at all. It had been cautionary. But she couldn't know he'd noticed.

The song ended, and both parties restrained sighs of relief. They made hurried excuses and walked away to join others.

"Abraxas," Riddle said, "could you be any less subtle?"

Abraxas had the nerve to look indignant. "What?"

"You've been staring at Granger this entire night," hissed Riddle. "Just because she's one of those Longbottom types, doesn't mean you have to be so obvious."

"Hey, sorry. I didn't think I was being that bad."

"Yes, well." Riddle ran his fingers through his hair. "Just tone it down. I'm guessing you can guess what the next step is, and we can't have any suspicion, all right?"

"Of course." Abraxas dipped his head, averting his eyes from Riddle's. "Sorry, sir."

"Damn right." Riddle stalked off, letting a slow breath slide from his lungs.

The rest of the dinner passed without much event. Riddle was too busy plotting the details of his next plan to engage anyone, really, and when he left, he went immediately to his room, not bothering with the Den.

He drew up a list of things he knew about Hermione Granger.

_1. She is tied with me for first in the class._

_2. She gets up in arms about human rights._

_3. She hates VoldeMart._

_4. She is on scholarship._

_5. She might possibly know too much._

Riddle sighed as he reread the list. Those five things weren't a good combination – but they could definitely work in his favor, if he was going to frame her as guilty of almost murdering Caroline. Her ambition was practically insatiable.

A frown flickered across his face for a second. If he was going to frame her as being ambitious enough to hurt Caroline like that... then he was going to have to make himself out to be a target. Which meant hurting himself badly enough to place suspicion on her.

That would require quite a bit of subterfuge. It would be an interesting challenge - he could see it in his head. Granger would have no idea he was hurt, so she would go through the day seeming as happy as always... and that would be suspicious indeed. He had to ensure that she'd seem cheerful after his little accident, though, that no one told her about it. Riddle would also have to take it upon himself to make her seem grasping, conniving, even more motivated in the weeks to come.

Traditionally, the Head Girl and Head Boy were chosen by class rank – but that would be far too convenient, if Granger were just randomly appointed Head Girl after being here less than a semester. No, that would be illogical and outlandish. Now that Caroline was gone, the more obvious choice would probably be Alvi Lovegood, who, though pretty much insane, had been third in the class since she'd arrived first year. Riddle cursed to himself – it would be better if Granger were juxtaposed with him constantly, Head Boy and Head Girl, so that he could have more control over her image.

He scribbled it down. _Convince Dippet to appoint Granger Head Girl._

After that, he would make her seem grasping, controlling and bossy, all of which were traits she already possessed. It wouldn't be that difficult.

He also made a note to ask Avery to hack into the computer mainframe and send him Granger's file, just to make sure Granger was really a scholarship student. That was important information for sure – information he could release at just the right moment to make her seem desperate for achievement...

It was all coming together.

With a contented sigh, Riddle went to bed.

oOo

The next morning, Hermione headed down to Dumbledore's office.

She didn't want something odd to happen to her phone, of course, and if it had arrived safely at Dumbledore's then she wanted it as soon as possible. The possibilities excited her – she could call Harry and Ron using it, she could call her parents... Texting had been too much to ask for, but she had a fair number of minutes per month.

A smile broke out onto her face as she knocked on Dumbledore's door, and she restrained herself.

Dumbledore answered the door with the word, "Income!"

Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come in, Ms. Granger."

A bit unnerved, Hermione opened the door.

"How can I help you?" asked Dumbledore, a smile in his blue eyes. "Anything dreadfully important? I'm sure you've written far too much on my essay already, Miss Granger –"

"Oh – it's not about class. I just wanted to see if a package had arrived for me. It probably just has the Hogwarts address on it."

"Hmm. Now that you mention it, there is this package here," said Dumbledore, rummaging under his desk. "The address is blacked out – the person wrote the Hogwarts address in the return spot, for some reason."

Hermione took the box. It felt a bit heavy for a cell phone, but then, packaging these days was outlandish. She frowned as she looked at its front – instead of an address in the middle, there was a bunch of scribbled sharpie, and in the top left was the Hogwarts address. What on earth had her mother been thinking? Perhaps her senile grandmother had addressed it first; that would've explained the utter nonsensicality.

"Thank you," Hermione said, with a quick smile, and left.

She reached her room, sat on her bed, and started to unwrap.

A sense of wrongness descended upon her when she unwrapped the brown paper and there was more brown paper beneath. "Um," she muttered to herself.

Frowning, she unwrapped the second layer, ripped the duct tape off the box beneath, opened the box inside that, and then decided this was the wrong thing entirely. Inside the box was an envelope, and cell phones didn't come in envelopes.

Hermione scowled at the envelope. Way to get her hopes up.

Then she saw a word – CONFIDENTIAL – stamped on the side of the envelope, and her curiosity was piqued.

Hermione found herself looking around her room, like she was worried someone was watching her. She took the envelope out of the box and unwound the twine that held it shut.

Inside was a string-tied bunch of papers. Hermione's heart leapt a little as she saw black lines through some of the information. What was this, some sort of secret-agent deal?

She nearly put the papers back, but a word caught her eye. _VoldeMart._

Hermione's heart sped up. She unbound the papers and started flicking through them. Every so often, the black line would go through someone's name – it looked like the same name every time, from the length of it. And – and as Hermione flicked through the papers to the ones that were marked with bright post-its – horror and sick nervousness rose in her.

She was holding evidence of the corruption of VoldeMart.

This was what Enron had done in America those years back – and now VoldeMart was doing it. All these subcontracted companies – they _didn't exist_, and VoldeMart's money was being funneled into them – and, subsequently, into private bank accounts.

Hermione looked around the room again, half-expecting a camera crew to pop out of nowhere. But no. This was _real._ She was holding this _in her hands._

She looked at the original wrapping again. The address was blacked out – by the post office, maybe? – but the return address was the Hogwarts address. Someone here had sent this. Someone here knew about this.

Hermione's mind flicked through the teachers. Most of them were liberal – she couldn't see any of them being affiliated with this type of thing. Slughorn was an odd sort, but if he were involved in this, Hermione couldn't see him keeping it to himself.

Then names of students started trickling through her mind. Abraxas Malfoy – of course, he was likely to have been involved. But... but why would he have this information? Why would his father entrust him with it? And why was the name of – it looked like – the name of the C.E.O. blacked out _everywhere it appeared_?

Hermione's head spun. She stared at the papers with critical eyes, trying to see through the black lines of Sharpie to the name behind them. It was to no avail.

She needed to tell her mother about this. She needed to get this to her mother as soon as possible. This could be more than evidence to her other lawsuit – this could be its own lawsuit. This would ruin VoldeMart – ruin it _forever._

Hermione swallowed and forced her hands to loosen, to stop crumpling the paper. This was insane.

oOo

Riddle knocked on the door. "Sir? It's Tom."

"Tom! Come in, come in."

Riddle pushed it open and gave a slight wave of greeting. Dippet was sitting behind his desk, his face cheerful, his hands folded on top of some papers. "How can I help you with?"

Riddle took the chair in front of the desk, looking around at the office. "I... I was just thinking about Caroline," he said in a low voice, one that was not _too_ obviously dismal.

Dippet's face fell. "Oh. Yes. Well, I haven't received word from her parents yet on her condition. The last thing I heard was that she was stable, and not much else. Such a shame, really. Such a bright young girl – so much potential..."

Riddle bit his lip. "Well, it's not like she's dead."

"No, and thank God for that," Dippet said, a crease appearing on his forehead. Riddle knew he was thinking about Myrtle. The incident didn't seem to drop from Dippet's mind for more than a few days at a time.

Riddle fiddled with his hands a little. "I'm just... Caroline was such an excellent Head Girl, sir. She really was."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure Alvi will do an excellent job, too, of course... but there's really no replacing Caroline."

Riddle let a slight frown come over his face. "Hold on – Alvi?"

"Yes, of course, Tom. Alvi Lovegood. The new Head Girl."

Riddle quirked his lips to the side. "Oh... I was under the impression that Alvi would decline the position."

Dippet frowned. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason, really – she just has a lot of independent pursuits, and though academia comes easy to her she's never been what I'd call utterly dedicated." Riddle shrugged. "I mean, has she accepted?"

"We actually... we hadn't asked her yet," said Dippet, still frowning. "Hmm. Well, who had you thought we'd choose?"

"I thought Hermione Granger, for certain. She's tied with me for first in the class, after all, isn't she?" The words felt sour.

Dippet nodded. "Oh, yes, Ms. Granger is doing quite phenomenally – but I thought it would be improper for her to become a Head Girl, seeing that she's only been here a couple of months. Especially when... well, I thought Alvi was such a hard worker... isn't she?"

Riddle put up a hand. "I'm not saying Alvi isn't a hard worker. Of course she is. But she's involved in so many non-academic things. She hosts Raven Club, she's the captain of the badminton club, and she visits her family in London quite frequently... not to mention that she goes to parties quite often, too –"

"Oh." Dippet seemed a bit at a loss. "Doesn't... doesn't Miss Granger do the same?"

Riddle shook his head. "Oh, no. Hermione is quite the scholar. She spends all her free time studying – she's one of the most responsible people I've ever met. Very conscientious."

"Well, Tom, you certainly have made a very good case for Ms. Granger... any reason?"

"She and I have gotten to be friends, I suppose," he said, inserting false modesty into his tone. This was the perfect time to set up Granger as grasping and ambitious. "She mentions it quite often, that she would have been Head Girl at her old school, and she really wishes she'd had the opportunity before coming here. But, of course, that's not up to her, as much as she might like it to be." Riddle let out a small chuckle.

Dippet raised his eyebrows, the consternation dripping from his expression. "Well, Tom. I hadn't put much thought to the possibility beforehand, but... I suppose she is a deserving young lady, and she is first in the class, after all... I'll speak with the staff about it, I suppose – we were supposed to have a meeting this afternoon, anyway."

Riddle bit his lip, and forced color to his cheeks. "Oh, and – sir – may I ask a favor?"

"Of course!"

"Could you... not mention it was me who brought this up?"

A sly look appeared on Dippet's face. "Oh... any particular reason why?"

"Um, I – of – not really," Riddle said, forcing a stumble in his words. He swallowed and started tapping his foot nervously.

"Your affections are safe with me," Dippet said, tapping the side of his nose with a smile.

_Perfect._ "Thank you, Headmaster," Tom said, utter relief washing his tone. "I really appreciate it."

"Have an excellent day, Tom," said Dippet fondly, as Riddle got to his feet.

"You too." Riddle made his exit, and once he stood in the stone hallway, safely alone, he grinned to himself. That had gone about as perfectly as it could have. No one was more predictable – or wound around his finger – than Armando Dippet.

He wasn't surprised at all, when, at dinner, the announcement was made.

Dippet stood, tapping his glass. "In light of the unfortunate circumstances that have arisen with Caroline Longbottom, we have appointed a new Head Girl: Hermione Granger."

There was a second of surprised silence, and then general clapping. Riddle looked over at Alvi Lovegood. She and her friends looked a bit surprised, but then she shrugged and went back to eating.

Victory rose in Riddle. He looked over at the Gryffindor table. Hermione didn't look surprised, of course – Dippet would have informed her earlier that day, as was customary – but the people around her looked shocked. She hadn't told them.

Riddle approached her after dinner. "Congratulations," he said.

She smiled. "I couldn't believe it when Dippet asked me. I've only been here for a couple months."

"Yeah, well, you deserve it," said Riddle.

"Thanks."

They walked in silence for a bit, and then Hermione said, "So, when do I move my things into the Head Girl room?"

"As soon as possible," Riddle said. "Head Girl duties start tonight, as well. We patrol from eleven to eleven thirty on weekends, and ten to ten thirty on weekdays. Just to make sure no one's out past curfew."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "That's quite late. I'm usually in bed by then."

"You'll be fine." Riddle's voice was dismissive. "I'll see you then."

oOo

It was about ten o'clock. Avery, an expert hacker, had sent him Granger's file from the school computer – there was that little red label there that said _funds waived_. Just like on his.

Someone knocked on Riddle's door. He looked up. "Come in."

Hermione poked her face through the door, her eyes scanning his room a bit before fixing on him. "Um... where's the bathroom, exactly? And why won't my door lock?"

"I think it might just be broken, if it won't lock. And the bathrooms are the last on the left down the hall. The pass-code is four ones."

"Is there a shower or something?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." Hermione shut the door quietly behind her.

Tom sat up a bit straighter in his bed. Her door wouldn't lock, and she was going to go wash? This was too good to be true.

He waited for about five minutes before sneaking out of his room and into hers, fully intending to snoop to his heart's content. He didn't know how long she'd spend in the shower – but she was a girl. Girls always spent forever washing their hair and all that, and given Hermione's volume of hair, it would probably be a while. Hopefully. He left the door open, ready to make a quick escape.

It was painfully messy inside. He didn't understand how she'd managed to mess it up so thoroughly, having only been in it about an hour – but then any thoughts at all streamed from his mind. He couldn't seem to think at all for a second.

Lying on top of the red bedspread was a torn brown sheet of paper.

Riddle thought he was mistaken for a moment. He wildly, desperately prayed that he was mistaken.

But no. As he strode to the bed and snatched up the paper – that was his handwriting. His writing in the upper left, reading the return address. And, most bizarrely, the address he'd written on the front was blotted out, covered in black Sharpie.

He looked around for the box. Where was the box?

It was lying open on her desk. He dumped it out and grasped the papers to his chest. Was there a chance she hadn't read them?

He checked – they were turned to the middle of the stack. There was no way. She'd looked through them, and probably understood them. Riddle thanked any and every deity that he'd been paranoid enough to black out his name from the documents.

He peeked out the door. There was no sign of her, so he started to tear up her room, making everything as chaotic as possible. Within three minutes, the modest mess had turned into a positive bombsite. The mattress was askew, the chair overturned, the desk lamp hanging off the side of the desk in dangling suicide.

Riddle stole back to his room and shut the door again, his heart beating fast. He unzipped his pillowcase and slid the papers inside, then hurriedly grabbed the book he'd been reading before and held it up to his face, not absorbing any words in the slightest.

He was listening so intently that her gasp was entirely audible when it came. Then there was a quiet, "Oh my..."

He'd expected that. What he hadn't expected was, after a minute or so, Hermione storming into his room wearing only a bathrobe, her hair straggly and sodden, her face flushed in rage. "You – give it back!" she said.

Tom frowned a little. "What?"

"Give it back!"

"Give what back?" Tom gave her a look like she was insane. She did look a bit crazy, her fists shaking, her eyes wild.

"Oh, like you don't know what I'm talking about! I should have seen it. I should have known it was you, not Malfoy."

Riddle sat up a little straighter, his expression as bewildered as it could possibly be. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"Shut up!" she exploded. "I know _everything!_ I know it's yours, and I know what you did, and I know – I know about your father!"

Something froze on her face. Riddle could tell she hadn't meant to say that part. He swallowed – purely for effect – and looked down at his hands. "All right," he said. "Thanks for the reminder."

When he looked back up at her with ice-cold eyes, Hermione still looked defiant, if a bit quieted. She barreled on. "We're not done here. We're _not done_. I'm going to Dippet." She scrutinized his expression. "Actually, never mind. I'm going to Dumbledore."

She turned on her heel to stalk away, but before she could reach the door, Riddle had caught her wrist and slammed the door shut. No. She could _not_ get to Dumbledore. The old man would know everything she was saying was true – it would be just the proof he needed to get Riddle expelled, thrown back into that world of destitution –

"No," he said, forcing the natural commanding tone from his voice, turning the word into a request. "Don't talk to him."

"Why?" Hermione shot back, yanking her wrist free. "If you really don't know what I'm talking about, why wouldn't you want me to talk to Dumbledore?"

"Because he hates me!"

Hermione's face creased into a frown, the light of suspicion in her eyes. "Why?"

"Because..." he muttered, looking away. His nimble mind raced through the possibilities. He had to try and get her on his side. At this point, it was all he could do. If she was going to go to Dumbledore, it would be hopeless. But how on earth could he convince her not to? "Because he thinks I killed someone."

That made Granger freeze. Riddle stared down at his toes. "He's got it convinced in his mind that I was the one that killed Myrtle. Ever since then, he's been out to expel me. If you're going to tell someone lies about me, please, just – just make sure it's not Dumbledore."

"I'm not _lying_, and I refuse to believe that he's just a crazy old man with a grudge against you," Hermione said. "He's one of the smartest people in the world. Why am I supposed to believe he's not right? Why on earth shouldn't I just go and we can figure out everything about you together -"

Dammit. It was time to play his last, most desperate card. Riddle grasped her upper arm, putting the most tragic look he could muster onto his face. "Don't," he whispered. "I can't... I can't get expelled. I _can't._"

Her eyes narrowed, and disgust filled her expression. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I've got nowhere else to go. Because I'm onscholarship."

It seemed to take a second to sink in, and then Hermione's hazel eyes grew very, very wide. She stiffened beneath his fingers, and her lips parted. She took in a slow breath. "You... you what?"

He took his hand from her arm and shoved it into his pocket, averting his eyes. If he played this right, he would come off as sympathetic. They would be in the same boat. One scholarship student to another. "I don't pay to go here," he muttered. "I can't. I'm from an orphanage."

The words were true, but he was so thick in the midst of manipulation that he still felt like he was lying. Odd, he mused. He hadn't told anyone this – not ever. He was, in essence, providing her with just the tools she needed to destroy him completely. But, because she was the same as him, she would keep it secret – he knew it. Wasn't it odd, how empathy worked? Tom was glad he wasn't burdened with it.

"You... you're from an orphanage." Hermione's voice was unsteady.

"My father didn't want me and my mother died," said Tom, the words bitter. But he wasn't forcing it anymore. The words brought a genuine pang of hurt to him. So simple. So true.

"I... you..."

When he looked up at her, it made his throat close up. She looked like someone had punched her in the stomach, like she legitimately ached from his words.

Hermione leaned against the door, staring. Tom glanced away from her blatant, overtly honest expression, feeling a bit sick at having said the words out loud. Something hurt in his chest all of a sudden, but he shook the feeling away in favor of anger at his present circumstances. Dammit – just because of a mix-up in the mail system, everything was compromised. Absolutely everything.

But his hope rekindled itself as Hermione said, "So... you really didn't know what I was talking about?"

_Of course._ She wouldn't believe that a scholarship student could be involved in the inner workings of VoldeMart... Riddle restrained a sigh of watery relief with immense difficulty. "No," he said, his voice carefully exasperated. "But with how much Dumbledore hates me, whatever the hell you thought could get me expelled in a half-second."

"I..." She fumbled with words for a long while. What was she trying to say? Her expression was really odd. Tom raised an eyebrow expectantly, but she made no sound.

"Look, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it quiet," Riddle said. Of course she would. That wasn't even a question.

"Yeah," she said, and then she turned on her heel and left the room without a further word. Riddle heard her door click shut, too, heard the creak of her bedsprings, and he ran his fingers through his hair, cursing everything that could be cursed. Things hadn't turned out as disastrously as they could have, but now she had leverage against him.

He sat down on his bed, staring at the wall, and suddenly felt hollow. She'd looked so sad when he'd told her about his parents, so dejected. She obviously cared so much – so much that Riddle wondered, all of a sudden, why he didn't even care at all.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, massaging the tension from his face. "Fuck all this," he murmured. Fuck his secret life. Fuck his so-called followers. Fuck his humble beginnings. Fuck the expectations he'd set for himself. Fuck his pathetic inability to feel anything for anyone else. And fuck his parents, for never even giving him a chance.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. I'll update as soon as I can. May be awhile.**

**Let me know you're reading, and let me know if you're enjoying!**

**All my love,**

**Speechwriter.**


	9. OlliVanderbilt

**SHE LIIIIIIVES**

* * *

Hermione woke up and didn't want to go to class.

The feeling was bizarre in and of itself, of course. Hermione Granger feeling disenchanted with the idea of class? Unexcited for a new day of handing in assignments and receiving assignments in turn?

Honestly, though, she would've liked nothing better than to sit in her bed, stare up at her ceiling, and think.

Patrol last night had been completely silent and incredibly awkward. She and Tom hadn't spoken a word—she hadn't been able to think of anything.

And now she couldn't stop thinking. Tom Riddle was a scholarship student. The top two students in the entire school were on scholarship. He was even more secretive and insecure about it than she was, obviously, with his remarks disregarding the disadvantaged at every turn. He evidently had no idea how to be comfortable with being himself—but that didn't change the possibility that he'd hurt Caroline Longbottom. In fact, that made it even more likely that he'd done it. He was so scared of being anything less than the best that he'd just had to discard her...

But whose was the VoldeMart stuff? It couldn't be Riddle. He lived in—it was still shocking to think it—an _orphanage._

Hermione rolled out of bed and got ready for class, unsure what to do. She couldn't tell her mother about the papers if she didn't _have_ them to show her, dammit. She'd had a chance to help the case against VoldeMart and the case's lawyers, and she'd wasted it, all because of a door that didn't lock and an ill-timed shower. Damn her luck.

She sighed. No use getting upset over spilled milk, even if the spill was as expansive as the Atlantic Ocean. Who were her prime suspects? Some student here—or perhaps even a teacher—was deeply entrenched in VoldeMart. Up to their eyeballs in it. And she was determined to uncover him or her, because whoever it was, they knew about the corruption. All she needed was proof.

Hermione shut the door, praying her room wouldn't get upended yet again, and hurried down to the Great Hall.

"Morning," she said.

"Good morning!" said Mafalda brightly.

Hermione stared. "What's with you?" Mafalda hated mornings, and it went double for Mondays.

"Oh, nothing," Mafalda said, but her voice practically sounded like a hysterical chuckle. Hermione and Zara traded a glance and tried to keep from laughing.

Zara put down her fork. "All right, come on. What is it?"

Mafalda smiled, humming to herself. "Nothing. Just… I may have a date."

"_What?_" Zara and Hermione said the word at the same time, attracting the attention of some people nearby.

"Oh, shut up," Mafalda said, still grinning maniacally. "We're going to Hogsmeade after classes."

Zara shoveled eggs into her mouth, staring. "Who?"

"You two won't tell?" Mafalda's voice was, for once, blessedly quiet.

Hermione was affronted. "Of course not!"

"Okay, well." Mafalda snuck a glance around. "It's Cygnus Black."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "WHAT!"

"Shut up, you nut," Mafalda hissed, looking around. "Don't go preaching it around, either. He specifically told me not to tell anyone_._ He was quite serious about that—don't know why, but—" She tucked her curly hair behind her ear and blushed. "I really like him."

Hermione couldn't help smiling. Mafalda seemed more at ease than ever. Maybe having a boyfriend would be good for her.

Odd choice, Hermione mused—Cygnus Black. A smoker, a Den-dweller, one of Riddle's posse. "How do you know him?"

"Well, I'm a swimmer, you know—and so is he. He's really good, too—he's on the Olympic training team."

"Wow," said Zara, her eyes shining. "He must look great shirtless."

Hermione rolled her eyes. That _would_ be the first thing for Zara to hypothesize.

"Actually, it's strange," said Mafalda. "He never takes off his shirt during swimming. He has this swim shirt that he says reduces friction—Coach doesn't like it, but he just can't make Cygnus swim without it. Maybe he's insecure." She shrugged and went back to eating.

Hermione blew some hair out of her face. Cygnus hadn't seemed like the type to be insecure—but you could never tell just looking at people, really, could you? Riddle had been the prime example of that…

Oh, no, not the Riddle train of thought again. Hermione dropped her spoon, feeling like the porridge was turning to ground lead in her mouth.

"You all right, Hermione?" Zara said. "You look a bit peaky."

"No, no—I just didn't get too much sleep," Hermione lied. "I really don't need Head Girl duties on top of all my schoolwork." She gave a hollow laugh.

"I don't fancy your schedule around exam time," said Mafalda, shaking her head.

Hermione grimaced. "You'll want to steer clear of me altogether, I suppose. Harry and Ron tell me I get… intense."

"Like you're not always intense," mumbled Zara. Hermione smiled and chose to ignore the comment.

oOo

Chemistry was awkward. Slughorn had decided on assigned seats a while back, and the fact that she was little more than a foot from Riddle did nothing to dislodge her thoughts from him.

It was almost romantic, she realized. He had a harrowed childhood. They were linked by common hardships. Yes—it was something she wouldn't mind seeing in a movie theatre. Except for the tiny little detail that he was possibly a psychotic would-be murderer.

Perhaps not even 'would-be'. And that reminded Hermione.

She took lunch to go to the library and search through the internet for information on Myrtle, but she was stunned to find not a single article on the subject. Not one. She didn't want to ask teachers about it—that would be entirely suspicious. No—she'd have to ask her friends. Or Myrtle's friends.

Hermione picked up her cell phone from Dumbledore's office that afternoon and called Ron for advice. The very sound of his words soothed her.

"Blimey, Hermione—how did you manage to get yourself into the one school that'll make me worry about you all the time?"

Hermione blushed. This was awkward—she felt old feelings stirring in her stomach, riled up by the familiar sound of Ron's voice. "Oh, I don't know. Don't be silly—don't worry. I—it'll be fine, I'm sure. I just need to find out where that package vanished off to."

"Just sneak into Malfoy's room. I'll bet it's him. He sounds right nasty, I'm telling you—and his dad's a nutter, too. Quit his Ministry job a few years ago for some reason."

Hermione frowned. "He quit his Ministry job? Why would he do that?" She lapsed into silence, thinking hard. "Unless… what if _he's_ the CEO of VoldeMart?"

"No, that seems too obvious. I mean, he's already a public figure and all, right?"

"Yes, that's right. He makes a lot of statements to media. Seems like an unpleasant sort of man, too, from what I've seen."

She could practically see Ron nodding. "His family treats mine like dirt, and they don't even have a reason. I'd definitely bet a pound or two on those papers being Little Malfoy's."

"But he rooms down in the dungeons. How could he have _possibly_ gotten into my room? In five or ten minutes, especially?" Hermione let out a strangled noise of frustration. "I just can't see how it could be _anyone_ but Riddle."

"Then it's probably Riddle."

"No, it's not that simple—he's not—he wouldn't—" She fell silent and looked over toward her door, which was closed.

Ron made a grumbling noise. "What, do you fancy him?"

"No," Hermione said, much too quickly. "But Ron, he's on scholarship. Just like me. He can't be involved with all this."

"Wait. He's on scholarship, too?" Ron sounded shocked. "But he hangs around with Malfoy!"

"I know, Ron! I just—" Then she broke off, her eyes widening. She shifted on her bed. "Oh! What if… what if Malfoy knew I had it somehow, and told Riddle to get it back from me without looking at what it actually was?"

"Sounds like a decent theory to me."

Hermione checked her phone and cursed. "Oh, I'm sorry—my minutes are getting low. I'll email you, or something, yeah?"

"Yeah, do that. And find time to come visit."

"I will. All my love to Harry and the fam."

Ron was quiet for a second. "…yeah. And all mine to yours."

Hermione hung up, placing the phone carefully on her bedside table. She shook away the usual feeling of nostalgia that accompanied contact with either of her best friends and started to form some semblance of a plan. If Tom was in cahoots with Abraxas, working for him, then she could win Riddle over and remove that link. Tom was so intelligent, so capable—missing him would be terrible for Abraxas.

There was something strange about the whole thing, Hermione thought with a frown. Riddle had so much more of a naturally dominant personality that it seemed wrong for him to be subordinate to anyone. Wasn't that how a good secret organization would function, though?

Hermione's eyes brightened. Mafalda was with Cygnus! Together, they could cut off both Malfoy's cohorts and leave him floundering by himself. …

Asking Mafalda to help her felt wrong, though. Hermione didn't want to involve her friends in this mess—especially if it was all entwined with Riddle's feverish desire to be first in the class at all costs.

How could she convince Riddle to get out of this whole business with Abraxas? With his being poor, she would have expected him to know of the evils of VoldeMart—but then again, his lack of wealth wasn't archetypical. He came from an orphanage, and Hermione shuddered when she thought about some orphanages in London. It was a miracle he'd survived at all.

Suddenly fierce righteousness seized Hermione. The Malfoys had a huge mansion—why on earth would Malfoy not offer to let Riddle stay there?

Oh, right—Malfoy didn't know about Riddle's home situation.

Hermione wondered if she was the only one who did.

She heard a quiet knock on her door and glanced over at the clock. Time for patrol. "Give me one moment," she said, pulling on a coat – the castle got chilly at night.

She joined Tom outside her door, and they took the elevator down to the rooms around the Den in unbearable silence.

"Tom," she said as they walked down the steps.

"Yes?" He didn't meet her eyes, but looked straight ahead, his defined cheekbones casting shadows across his face in the dim light.

Hermione fidgeted. "I just… I didn't know if you'd figured it out, but I'm a scholarship student too." She stuck her hands in her pockets, staring at the floor. The words felt strange. It had taken so long to work up the courage to say them. "Just thought… thought you should know, since we're the only ones in twenty years."

She glanced at him. There was a small smirk on his lips. "Yeah. I had an idea. You're good at hiding it, though." Then he met her eyes, and Hermione felt a cold shock in her stomach. She looked away quickly as Tom continued. "It's weird. You don't seem like the type to hide it."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not, really. Well, I don't _want_ to hide it, exactly. It wasn't as if I came here planning not to tell anyone—it just seemed to work out that way."

"Yeah, well. It's a tough idea, everyone knowing."

"Am I the only one who knows about you?"

He gave a lazy nod of his head, and Hermione looked down at the ground again, feeling strangely privileged. No one else knew Tom Riddle like this.

She suddenly asked, "Tom, why do you hang around Abraxas Malfoy?"

Tom gave her a weird look. "Because he's a good friend?"

"Ah." They walked back up the steps and took the elevator to the tower to check the Raven Club dorms.

She gathered up the courage to speak again. He seemed impassive, guarded, unwilling to have a legitimate talk. "You said you're from an orphanage?"

"Yes." Tom didn't like having this conversation. Not a bit. He made the word as clipped as possible in an effort to deter Granger from continuing, but it didn't work.

"What was that like?"

Tom looked at her. She appeared genuinely curious, though he supposed he should learn not to read this girl's appearance as he would read others. "Awful," he said, and he saw the sympathy creep into her gaze, and he wanted to punch her into the ground. How dare she think of him as lower than she was? How dare she presume that, because he had to live in that _place_, she and her impoverished ilk were superior to him?

As she opened her mouth, he guessed she was going to offer her condolences. But he was wrong.

"When I was younger," she said, "I took dance classes. Ballet."

"You told me."

"When I was six, I had to stop, because there wasn't enough money to go around." Hermione took a shaky breath. This was something she rarely shared, but if she wanted to put Tom at ease—or, well, if she wanted to coerce him into valuing her opinion more than that of Abraxas Malfoy—she needed to show him the trust he'd showed her. "Mum and Dad fought all the time, and it was always the same thing. Money. I used to sit in bed and stare at the wall and wonder why things weren't different. I used to think to myself, I _deserve_ money. My parents _deserve_ to be filthy rich. So many people I know who are poor _deserve_ money…"

Hermione glanced up at Tom, who observed her calmly. She had no idea what he was thinking—his face gave nothing away. It could have been anything from polite disinterest to masked hatred. "So, anyway," she said, "I started stealing things."

Riddle made a noise of surprise, and Hermione gave him a funny look. It was so rare to hear anything from him that was involuntary, out of his control.

"What sort of _things?"_ asked Riddle, staring more intensely than before.

Hermione shrugged. "All sorts of things. Not candy or pencils or anything, like children usually take. Expensive stuff—jewelry, electronics. And, well—" she flushed. "In my mind, this was all right. I'd reasoned it through in my head, researched quarterly data online, and come to the conclusion that the stores I was specifically targeting had far too much money as it was and that they probably underpaid their workers and overpaid their upper-tier management."

"How old were you?"

"Maybe eight or nine. You know, it's really remarkable what you can get away with when you're young."

Riddle tried to hold back his smirk. "Yes. Yes, it is." He shook his head. "So, in essence, you were a nine-year-old anarchist?"

"I used to think of myself as Robin Hood," Hermione said quietly, her voice echoing around the tower. "I thought, well, Robin Hood is always portrayed as the sympathetic character—there's no reason why I shouldn't be."

"And what'd you do with this stuff?"

Hermione smiled. "I slid it under people's doors."

Riddle felt abrupt disgust rise in him. This had been such an appealing story—until now. She hadn't even _kept_ the fruits of her efforts? What a waste of time and energy. "You didn't keep any of it?"

"Well, just one thing," Granger said, blushing. "My parents saw me sneaking a watch back into my room and gave me this lecture on how stealing was wrong, and I asked them, well then, how could I get rich, because they were always fighting about it. They told me to go to a good university and I could get a good job." Granger looked back up at him, her eyes shining and earnest. "So I said I would. And I will."

Riddle looked back at the ground. He realized they'd stopped at the top of the steps a while ago. He hadn't asked to hear her life story, for God's sake—but what was surprising was the realization that she interested him. He'd always found her mildly entertaining, but genuine interest unanticipated. When she started speaking again, he watched and listened and drank in the information.

"My parents had the worst fight they'd ever had that night," she murmured. "About me stealing things. Dad said, this is your fault, she's learned your impetuous, impulsive, overzealous way of dealing with things, and Mum said, no, it's your fault for never telling her the truth about anything." Hermione sighed. "They filed for divorce three days later, but I had one thing left."

"The watch."

"The gold watch. Still got it. Reminds me things don't last. Reminds me to keep my head in the future and not waste too much time thinking about things that pass quickly."

Tom leaned on the banister, observing the scruffy girl in front of him, her eyes that were too close together, her skin that was spotted with acne in places, her lips that were too thin and too stubborn. That plain brown hair that got its undying frizz from God-knew-where. And he felt for a second that they were utterly identical. He felt for a short moment that he, future inheritor of billions, and she, dirt-poor street urchin, were one and the same.

It scared him.

"Come on," he said. "We're behind schedule."

As he walked down the steps, his movements brisk, Hermione stared after him. Had none of that penetrated him? He hadn't made a single facial expression. He hadn't reacted at all but to display his lack of reaction.

She almost felt affronted, but she thought better of it. They were on equal footing now. He'd shared with her, and she'd shared with him. And, if she had it her way, something would come of it.

oOo

A week passed.

Tom stared up at the ceiling and took a drag on his smoke. Things were going well on the business front—but he hadn't garnered up the initiative to find time to do something about Granger. He was keeping her close, keeping an eye on her, but he still hadn't decided on an appropriate way to get her expelled. To be frank, he'd lost some drive since that day she'd told him about herself. For some reason, thinking of deceiving her left distaste in Tom's mouth. He saw something of himself in her, that was for certain—yet it was more than that. He thought that she might be useful.

The more he considered it, the more he wished she would just see sense, and then he could recruit her. Her motivation was admirable at the very least. She could be the perfect right-hand man.

His main question was this: Was she incorruptible?

She'd showed that she wasn't incapable of wrongdoing with that story of her childhood, though she'd seemed bashful revealing it. Was there a way to convince her, with concrete evidence, that VoldeMart was a company that simply needed guidance? Direction from the right side of things? If they could cooperate—if they could build up the empire further, harvest the profits—then when it crashed around their ears, he could frame her and get off scot-free. Since she was a nobody, she wouldn't have anyone to attest to her trustworthiness. Everyone would believe Tom Riddle, who was the center of all power and influence, over this sad little climber of the corporate ladder.

It was perfect. But _how_? Riddle had obtained a copy of that essay she'd written for Merrythought at the beginning of the year. Her arguments were on the solid side of ludicrous—she was obviously entrenched in her opinions.

She'd been acting funny for a while now, though. As if she wanted to ask him something, and it was easily visible on her face.

Riddle stopped picking at the fraying pocket on his jeans. He crushed his cigarette out, stood from his bed, left his room, and knocked on her door.

"Yes?" came the voice from inside. "Come in, then."

He shouldered his way in and shut the door behind him. "Granger, mind if I talk to you?"

She eyed him coolly. "Sorry, I don't hold conversations with ashtrays."

"What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb, Riddle. I can smell the smoke from here. Our rooms are connected by ventilation, if you hadn't noticed."

He smirked. "Well done. Anyway, I wanted to talk business for a second."

That got her attention. She turned to him, her eyes probing for an answer. "Business?" she said slowly. "Yes, I think that's a good idea. Actually, I've been wanting to speak to you for a while now about business."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes." Granger fidgeted and let out a long breath. She looked nervous. "Okay. Do you remember last week, when I, ah, came in and started yelling at you?"

"Yeah."

She wound her fingers into her hair. "Okay. I… I was thinking that maybe you didn't know exactly what you took from my room."

"…took?" Riddle said, narrowing his eyes.

She snorted. "I told you not to play dumb. Look, no one else was around, you knew my door was unlocked, et cetera. The list goes on. But I don't really _care_ that you took it. I was just wondering if you _knew_ what you were recovering."

Riddle stared. There was some context behind her words that she just wasn't spitting out. He stuck with the safest question: "…wait, what?"

Hermione huffed. "Okay, fine. Fine. Did Malfoy tell you what it was or not?"

Riddle's mind slid the pieces together in an instant. She thought Malfoy was the head of VoldeMart. She thought that Riddle was only affiliated through Malfoy. She blamed Malfoy for the corruption.

This was brilliant. This was more than he could have hoped for.

He shook his head slowly. "No, he didn't. Why?"

Riddle saw triumph in Hermione's eyes. With those four words, he'd confirmed all her inferences and wrongly-drawn conclusions. With those four words, he'd conceded false defeat.

And it felt so wonderful seeing that misguided sense of victory plain on her face. She didn't know how useful her overconfidence would prove.

"I just thought you… you might want to know what Malfoy's doing."

"Care to explain?"

"Yes." Hermione crossed her legs and folded her arms. "Malfoy's father is one of the P.R. people for… VoldeMart, I'm sure you know." A look of distaste flickered across her face at the mention of the company, and Riddle held back his anger.

"Yeah, I know."

Hermione nodded. "Anyway, there's—that packet—it was very… enlightening."

A brainwave hit Riddle, and he could barely keep himself from grinning. "Wait, Hermione," he said, admiring how serious his voice sounded. "Are you sure you want to get into this?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I told you before. Malfoy gets pretty strange when he doesn't like someone. You… well, you don't want to get on his bad side." Riddle flexed his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Think about it. For your own good."

He saw her carefully sliding pieces together, trying to see if they fit. The calculations she was doing, the probabilities—it was entertaining to watch. Riddle frequently forgot how intriguing it was to see other intelligent people operating, especially when those people were as obvious as Granger. When they were inscrutable, like he was, or like Dumbledore, it wasn't very fun at all… just frustrating. Tom remembered when she'd still had secrets, when he'd found her difficult to read, and he did not mourn the passing of those days. It would be bad for her to frustrate him. Yes, certainly better for Granger that she had all the facial subtlety of a hyena. Or a seven-year-old boy.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion he'd assumed she would. "Tom, please don't tell anyone I asked you this, but... I…"

"Yeah?"

"I know Caroline Longbottom's family owns the shipping company that's essentially placing an embargo on VoldeMart… do you know anything about her… accident?"

Riddle let out a slow exhale and directed his attention out the window. Time to pull out the big guns. "Nothing I'm supposed to talk about, with anyone."

He snuck a glance at her. She wasn't looking at him, and he saw her swallow uneasily. "Oh dear," she said, in a sort of nervous chuckle. "Isn't that… sort of extreme?"

Riddle shrugged. "You have to be careful around people who always get what they want. Bottom line—you should keep out of all this. Just relax. Enjoy your last year, go to parties, do schoolwork, whatever. But stay out of Abraxas's way."

And, by saying that, he knew he'd convinced her to do the exact opposite. He left her room, lit three more cigarettes, and left them to burn in his ashtray while he went to handle more important issues.

oOo

Two days passed, and Granger didn't bring up the issue again—though Riddle could tell she was dying to talk about it. He prepared himself for an earful of lecture about VoldeMart the next time they spoke. But, in the meantime, he called the group together and explained to them the only parts of the plan they needed to know.

"So, in short, be subtle about your newfound subordination to Mr. Malfoy, but let it show at least a small bit. We wouldn't want her getting suspicious." Riddle made a short, mocking bow to Abraxas, his eyes cool. Even in jest and under pretense, expressing deference to Abraxas Malfoy left more than a little something to be desired.

Riddle scanned his followers. Avery looked painfully confused. Riddle sighed. "Avery, why do you always look like you're attempting to pass a kidney stone?"

Avery swallowed and cracked a knuckle. "I just. I was just. Um. Wondering. Why does this Granger chick matter so much, anyway?"

Riddle considered punching the shit out of him for a second. It'd make a very nice _don't-ask-questions-you're-not-really-supposed-to-know-the-answer-to_ statement. But he felt like being merciful, so he considered for a moment, tilted his head, and said, "She is very competent, and that's dangerous."

Lestrange burst out before he seemed to be able to stop himself. "Then why aren't we just getting rid of her?"

Riddle turned his dark gaze on Lestrange, who obviously regretted saying anything as soon as he'd said it. Tom repeated, his voice deadly quiet, "Because she is very competent."

Silence dropped over the group. It was clear none of the others understood what he meant. Wonderful. "You may go," Riddle said, waving a hand carelessly. "Remember—Thursday at ten o'clock. Be here, and Malfoy, compile an agenda—you'll be running the meeting. Please attempt to make it… competent."

Tom fell silent. The others filed out, and Tom mentally finished his statement. _Because we'll be expecting company._

He pushed the desks back into place and stalked down the hall, his hands in his pockets. He realized he was out of everything illegal, and he considered finding a dealer, but realized he was in too good a mood to actually do any drugs at the moment. He messed up his hair with one hand and took the elevator back to the second floor.

Granger stood outside his door, turning to face him as he approached.

"Where have you been?" she asked, sounding like she was admonishing a small child.

Riddle sighed, dumbing down his speech to get himself out of business-executive mode. "Jesus, what are you, my parents?"

He saw her face pale and nearly rolled his eyes. People who were oversensitive about dead people irked him terribly. In Tom's opinion, the only person worth caring about in that aspect was himself.

Although, if he had to say something about his mother, he'd say it would be nice if she were alive. It was embarrassing that both his parents were dead. Riddle had used to wonder if she actually had been rich—if she were really wealthy, why had she not afforded herself decent medical care? It was one thing for his filthy urchin father to die, quite another for a Hogwarts Founder's wealthy descendant to do so.

"Anyway, what's going on?" said Riddle, unlocking his door.

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

_Not really._ "Why?"

"Because."

"I don't know. I've got an essay to write." Riddle put his best face of apology on. That face was one that didn't get a lot of practice.

Hermione scoffed. "Oh, like hell you do."

"Excuse me?" Riddle drew himself up a bit, frowning at her. Okay, so he was lying. But the idea that she was actually calling him out on it was startling. And not to be tolerated.

He saw her get flustered. "Come on. I—you're always done with everything you need to do. I just don't understand how you can do all your work in an hour, and then lock yourself up in your room the rest of the day and still manage to be best friends with everyone."

Riddle let out a sarcastic 'ha'. "Best friends? As if."

Hermione started compulsively snapping her phone open and shut. Riddle wondered when she'd gotten one—and how she'd been able to afford it. "Come on, Tom. Everyone likes you," she said, flicking her hair out of her eyes.

"If you didn't know, 'friendship' is mutually decided upon. We're only friends if we _both _like each other_._"

Hermione laughed. "So, what, you hate everyone?"

_Yes._ "I didn't say that."

Hermione let out a long sigh. He was being very difficult tonight. She'd wanted to talk about VoldeMart, but if he was in _this_ type of mood, it might be better to catch him at another time. "Forget it," she decided. "I still have to do that packet for Slughorn, so—"

"Wait, Granger. Why'd you want to go for a walk?"

She pursed her lips. "Are you going to continue being petulant if I answer?"

Riddle narrowed his eyes, folding his arms and leaning against the door. "Only if you insist on being wrong."

"I'm not _wrong_!" Hermione said hotly, glaring. He looked so smug, so self-assured, like he owned the castle. "You're just obnoxious!"

Riddle's mouth opened slightly. He didn't think anyone had ever said that to him in his entire life.

His first instinct was to induce extreme physical violence. In fact, his hand crept into the pocket of his—or, well, Abraxas'—bomber jacket and gripped the handle of his pocketknife.

He told himself to relax, and he took his hand out of his pocket. Admittedly, it was amusing to him that she didn't even know how close she'd come to being in excruciating pain, standing there, her arms folded and her clear brown eyes spitting fire. So he decided he'd humor her. "Okay—come on, let's walk."

"No," she huffed.

Riddle scoffed, slung an arm around her shoulder, and steered her down the hallway. He didn't think anything of the casual contact at first—all part of the character—but after they reached the elevator, she said in a small voice, "Um, do you want to get off me?"

_Why, yes. Yes, I do._ But he just laughed, slid his arm from her, and messed up his hair again, making sure not to dislodge the pencil from behind his ear. It was remarkable how much sway that pencil could have in the mind's eye. It gave others the sense of a studious, hardworking, honest, jovial student. None of which he was, of course. But the façade had to be carefully maintained.

They came out of Hogwarts into the night air. As it was a Tuesday, the grounds were silent and practically deserted, except for a lone couple making out by the lake. Hermione kicked at the grass as they headed toward the tennis courts. "Okay, so. I wanted to talk about this whole VoldeMart thing where there's no chance Abraxas could hear."

"What, like he's got surveillance wired up to your room?" snorted Riddle.

Hermione sniffed, sticking her hands in her pockets. "You never know. You said he was paranoid." She shivered—it was nearly November, and the air smelled like freezing rain, sucking the warmth from her thin sweater.

"Yeah, well. What's there to talk about? I said you should keep out of it, remember?"

"I was thinking you should too," Hermione said slowly, glancing up at him. "If Malfoy's willing to hurt someone like Caroline—someone completely harmless—what's to say he won't do it to you, too?"

"Oh, he does." Riddle's quiet voice rang in the still air. "He does it to everyone. He's got to keep control somehow." The lies were far too easy to tell. He could barely keep himself from sniggering as he self-described. "He doesn't really seem to want business partners as much as followers—he expects so much respect, but doesn't seem to think we deserve any in return."

Hermione looked outraged. "Well, why haven't you left by now, then?"

"He needs me."

She let out a breath of disbelief in response. It puffed out white in the cold, dark air. "That's a terrible reason. If he's abusing his power now, what'll he be like when he gets out of school and _really_ gets into the business?"

Hermione gripped the chainlink fence surrounding the tennis courts and looked up at Riddle, her eyes hopeful and filled with moon. "Tom, even if he does need you, you should consider getting out while you can. Maybe even more so because of it—VoldeMart is a terrible corporation."

Riddle frowned. "How so?"

She let out a shaky sigh. "You really don't want to talk about this with me. I could go on for hours about the economic effects. Why would you help something like that—even if it is for your… your friend?"

Riddle glanced around, his even features looking nervous. Hermione breathlessly anticipated his response. Maybe there was hope. He didn't seem sure—and there had sure been a note of resentment in his voice when he'd been talking about Malfoy being in control.

"No."

Her heart started to sink, but then he continued.

"I'm trying to fix things," murmured Riddle, scratching at his jaw with one long finger. "And I think I can do it."

"Fix things?" Hermione gave him a cautious look, tucking her hair behind her ear, shivering slightly.

"You want my jacket?"

Hermione stared. "Er, what?" One minute he was hardly even speaking to her, the next he was infuriating, the next he was offering her his jacket. What the hell was with him? Was he bipolar? "Sure…"

The jacket was warm, and Hermione didn't feel bad taking it—Riddle had on a thick wool sweater under it. "Anyway—what did you mean, '_fix things_'?"

Riddle leaned against the fence, which clinked in protest. He looked over at her, his pale skin milk-whitened by the moon, harsh shadows cast by his serious brow. "I'm trying to fix the company. Make it better. Economically speaking, the concept is viable. It's just individual practices of corruption and substandard dealing that weaken the company at its core. We can bring jobs back to Britain—it's quite simple—and I still can't really believe I'm getting the opportunity to work so closely in the company. I mean, Hermione—"

He turned to face her, excitement clear on his face. "I'm not even at university yet, and the decisions I help Abraxas make are impacting the lives of millions of people around the world. That's something you can't just step away from. I can't get back to sitting in economics and thinking about what _might_ happen if I do this—I can _actually do it._"

He took a deep breath and stopped, seeming like he was forcing himself to do so. Hermione felt a tingle in the tips of her fingers. The look of feverish passion in his eyes was almost inspiring.

"Don't you get it?" he breathed. "This is real life. I don't have to pretend anymore."

Riddle could see it in her eyes—he had her. "And… and I was wondering if you wanted to stop pretending too."

Her eyes went wide. "You mean… join…"

"_Think_ about it!" hissed Riddle, reaching out and taking her shoulder. He was close. He looked nearly manic in the darkness. His voice sobered. "Just think about the possibilities. Think about the good you could do. The good _we_ could do. Changing this corporation, helping _so _many people."

Hermione's mouth opened slightly and the word quivered before toppling from her lips. Riddle stared hungrily at her mouth as it emerged.

"Okay."

_Victory._

* * *

**x**

**x**

**Guys, I know it's been like nine years. Real life is so inconvenient sometimes, right?**

** It's really late at night that I'm finishing up this edit, and I'm about to die from tiredness – I just wanted to give a shout-out to the fantastic Nerys and Serp for galvanizing me into writing. And I hope you enjoyed the results. I understand if they're a little rocky—it has definitely been a while.**

** Reviews are adored. Thanks for reading, and if you liked it, by all means drop me a line.**

** With love,**

** Speechwriter.**


	10. Barnes&Noble&Most Ancient House of Black

**Eternal apologies for the hyperextended delay, and eternal thanks for the reviews:**

**OrchidsandVines, Nero Basterdino, a, QUACK3RS, awavingflag, Deritine, Arabella Riddle, Rachel P, Minty, DemonTsunami, lizzywithfire, StrictlySomething, xHappyHardcorex, Anonymously Anonymous, Nevermore2022, Acciopencil, Sin-and-Smokin, Anguis Intrepidus, PJO Smiley Faces, Katherine, Crazycoolname, Shubhs, Doob, desolee, Anon, Kelly, Sheridan Malfoy Potter, LilasRose, Dr. Shanty, Lania26, morpheusandmuse, kcluvssugar, and riddle1rave.**

** Will … finish… this… story…**

**Speechwriter**

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea? My just showing up unannounced?" Hermione hissed.

Riddle hushed her, pressing the elevator button. "Calm down, sweetheart –"

"And haven't we spoken about the sweetheart thing? You sound like a forty-year-old woman when you say that –"

"I suppose we're even, then, since you sound like one all the time –"

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione folded her arms as they exited the elevator.

He grinned.

A voice came from behind them. "Riddle."

They turned. Malfoy approached them, blond hair glinting in the torchlight, lazy imperious look on his face. "Punctual as usual, I'm happy to see." He turned his eyes on Hermione. "Glad to see you here, too. Tom asked me if he might bring you."

Hermione swallowed and nodded. They entered a room she'd never seen, a room without desks and with a tiered floor, lecture-hall style. She and Tom joined the line of boys on the second step who stood in deathly silence. Her eyes flicked over their faces and caught on Cygnus, who stared at her like he'd never seen her before in his life.

Aquilus Lestrange's mouth drooped open for a second at the sight of her, but he caught himself. His jaw snapped shut with a click.

"Evening, gentlemen," Malfoy said, throwing himself into a chair and putting his feet up on another. "Avery. Numbers."

Avery cleared his throat. "P/E ratio rose by .2 since Monday, sir. Dividend yield, three percent; week's high, forty-five pounds, eight pence."

Malfoy nodded. "Good. Stable, then." He turned silvery eyes on Riddle. "You've sent my package, I trust, Mr. Riddle?"

Hermione swallowed and fidgeted.

"Oh, of course. How rude of me," Malfoy said. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to welcome Hermione Granger, a new advisor."

A murmur of welcome.

"We'll be very interested to see what Ms. Granger has to offer." Malfoy shook back his hair. "For now, we should return to proceedings. Riddle. You've sent the package?"

Hermione's palms sweated as she cast a glance at Riddle. What would Malfoy do if he found out Riddle hadn't sent it? They'd looked at it that very afternoon, talked over some numbers, deciphered some spots where error was obvious. And how did Malfoy keep a group of teenage boys this quiet, this serious?

"No," Riddle murmured.

Malfoy let out a sigh. "Well, Tom, that's a shame, isn't it?"

A muscle flexed in Riddle's jaw. Hermione felt humiliated on his behalf. How could his dignity stand that much condescension?

"Would you please join me?" Malfoy said. "Come on. Come down."

Riddle stepped down and crossed to Malfoy's side.

"Hold out your hand palm-down," Malfoy said. Riddle obliged. Then Malfoy took a lighter from his pocket. "Keep your hand there. And that's an order."

Hermione realized she wasn't breathing.

What was he going to do? What sort of freakish cult had she walked into?

Malfoy flicked the lighter a couple of times before it flared to life, and lifted it until it sat a mere two inches below Riddle's hand. Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, and Malfoy looked the dark-haired boy calmly in the eye. "In the future," he said, with agonizing slowness, "I hope this proves a reminder to follow my orders, so certain other orders aren't necessary. Are we clear?"

Riddle's mouth had dropped open, his eyes shut, his face creased with agony. Hermione wanted to bolt to the front of the room, knock him out of the way, but shock paralyzed her.

"Are we clear?" Malfoy repeated.

"Yes, sir." The words were strangled. Malfoy clicked the lighter off, and Riddle turned his hand palm-up, exposing the bloody oozing burn to the rest of the room.

Hermione made a high-pitched noise of fury and strode to the center of the room. "Oh my God. Oh my God, you need to get to the Infirmary."

"Granger," Malfoy said, voice coated with silky charisma. "Please cease the dramatics."

"Dramatics?" Hermione's pulse thudded in her ears as she rounded on him. "Could _you_ please cease your ego trip? I don't care who you are; you can't do that to a person!"

"And if either you or Mr. Riddle cares to continue in the company's employment, you'll stop speaking immediately."

Hermione opened her mouth and prepared to snap – she would find some other way to take down VoldeMart, some other way to fix it, she didn't care – but Tom's good hand slipped onto her shoulder, and his whisper tickled the back of her neck. "Please. No."

She choked back words, pursed her lips tight, and stepped back from Malfoy, heat pouring through every inch of her. How dare he. How _dare_ he. The same boy who had ordered Caroline Longbottom poisoned and half-drowned – the same boy she'd pegged as a bad sort from the start – it made her skin itch with hatred.

Malfoy lit a cigarette and stuck his lighter back in his pocket. He nodded to the line, and Riddle retreated instantly.

Hermione allowed herself a second longer of mutinous glaring before following Riddle's trail of blood.

Then they got on with business.

oOo

"Are you serious?" Ron yelped. "That's demented. Harry, are you hearing this?"

"I've a mind to come over there and set the bloke straight myself," Harry said darkly.

"I can't believe this is happening," Hermione said. "I'm still reeling. I've no idea what to do, or how to approach this. Tom's got a scar on his hand – I could show a teacher, but he'd probably make up some excuse to remove blame from Malfoy. He's already shown that he's putting the company first."

That was the problem, wasn't it? As long as Tom Riddle put the company first – as long as he saw it as the most important thing in his life – he would put up with Malfoy's antics. She just needed him to care about something else more. Schoolwork? No – he already had perfect marks in everything. His social life? He'd told her in Life Skills that everything social would come second to work.

She couldn't think of a thing. With someone as apathetic as he was, she found it difficult even to conceive that he might start to care about something more than this.

He obviously cared about his future. He cared about himself, too. She would have thought, in the interest of self-preservation, he'd find a less … painful occupation.

Where to go from there?

"Here's an idea," Harry said. "How about you invite him to start your own company?"

"Oh, he certainly doesn't care about me enough to drop his friends and –" Hermione bit her lip. What if he did care about her, though? And if he didn't, could she make him? Had Tom Riddle ever had a serious girlfriend? "I'll … call you later," she said quietly, and hung up, toying with the idea. What did Tom want in a woman? Could she exemplify that, sway him to her side?

She lay back on her bed, exhaustion holding her limbs loose. She'd been sleeping little, her work and Head Girl duties piling up.

But she couldn't let this continue. What if she was next?

Her hands flexed compulsively.

oOo

The days turned into weeks, and Caroline Longbottom still hadn't returned to reclaim her position as Head Girl. Hermione hadn't left, either, to visit family or friends. Frankly, she didn't have the time on weekends. Zara and Mafalda insisted they go out every Saturday, but besides that brief block of time, she worked non-stop. Riddle commented on it rather more than necessary.

"You do too many things," he said flatly during Chemistry. "You're looking awful."

"Thank you for your sympathy."

"Oh, no problem."

Meanwhile, Hermione had started asking around for clues as to Myrtle's death. She hadn't managed to wring much information out of the school population – the most she had was from Mafalda, who'd said, "Well, Myrtle had the distinction of joining Lenny Bruce, Elvis Presley, and Judy Garland when she died."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She died in a bathroom too. Other than that, no one's really sure how it happened. But a rumor got out that it wasn't natural, if you know what I mean."

"A bathroom? How? And if it was a … a murder, why haven't they arrested anyone?"

Mafalda shrugged. "Questioned a bunch of people, but never found any DNA or anything. Anyway, they've set the place off-limits now. It's on the second floor somewhere – you know, that boarded-up room."

Hermione did know that room. It was only one hallway away from the Head Boy and Girl quarters.

And so it was that Hermione Granger found herself sneaking out of her room at midnight on a Tuesday, intending to break into a bathroom where a girl had been murdered. If, this time last year, someone had told her she'd be doing this, she would have snorted hard enough to injure her sinuses. And yet.

Armed with a screwdriver, she approached the door. Her throat tightened as she examined the situation more closely: Four thick planks had been screwed tight in with countless metal studs. This would take hours. If only there were some way to magically blast the damn things out of the way … but no such luck. Hermione sighed, crouched, and got to work.

Half an hour later, silver screws littered the floor. It was about then that she thought to look around for any security cameras. Surely Hogwarts would have surveillance of some sort, though she didn't know if they'd have someone monitoring it all the time.

As she craned her neck toward the dark ceiling – the warm incandescent lights were dimmed – a noise reached her ears. A voice. She froze. Did Hogwarts teachers patrol around the school at night, looking for miscreants? There was always Filch, the caretaker, a young and malicious man who never seemed to sleep or do anything besides complain at people. But there would be no reason for him to speak, unless he had randomly turned into a crazy old cat lady and was talking to himself …

Hermione shook herself back to her senses with a quiet curse. Two planks lay on the floor, amid probably thirty screws. She had nowhere to hide them – and nowhere to hide herself.

Unless –

Hermione gritted her teeth and shoved the planks under the crack in the bathroom door. They made a terrible whining noise going through, and the screws rattled as she scooped them in afterward – but now all she had to do was get back around the corner and pretend she was going to the bathroom on the other side. Easy.

She stumbled to her feet, sparing a wild glance around for a Filch flashlight beam, and dashed for the corner.

Then she realized the voice was coming from around the corner, and she skidded to a stop. Hermione bit her lip until the bitter taste of blood coated her tongue. Could she pull the 'new student, took a wrong turn' card? If it were the middle of the night and she really had just woken up, she could be a little disoriented – she'd have to do something to get back into Filch's good graces, but he should buy her story – she shouldn't get in any real trouble –

But then she realized the voice wasn't getting closer.

Hermione peeked around the corner.

No one there.

And the voice wasn't Filch's.

She crept toward Tom's door, making sure not to cast a shadow in front of it, and listened.

"Yes, Mulciber," he said quietly. "I understand if it gets out – but it's not going to get out, do you understand?" A brief pause, and then Riddle's voice lowered. Hermione heard the menace she'd seen in his eyes a couple times, and she took an instinctive step backward. "How dare you bring that up," he murmured. "How dare you mention it. You presume too much."

He paused, and said, "No, that's of no consequence. I tested it the first night she got here – she sleeps like a rock. Even more so than Longbottom."

Hermione's mouth dropped open of its own accord. He'd tested _what_?

"Fine," he hissed. "I'll move, if you'll stop your endless and unjustifiable paranoia." Hermione saw the light turn on under the door, and then she saw his shadow approach the door.

She sprinted for the corner and slipped out of sight just as the door creaked open.

Hermione's pulse pounded. Was he coming in her direction? What was Riddle even doing, talking to Finrigo Mulciber – an age-old seatholder at VoldeMart's board of directors – in the middle of the night?

The clicking of his brisk footsteps approached her. Dear God, he was probably heading for the elevators. It was a long, straight hallway. She had to make a break for it.

"What do you mean, they want to _cancel_ the merger?" Riddle's voice snapped around the bend. "I absolutely will not hear a word of that. Tell the board to sweeten the deal somehow – we're already absolving all their debt, what the hell more do they want? Bastards!"

Even as she fled down the hall, shock froze through her limbs. This did not sound like a follower's duty. This did not sound like the area of expertise of a subordinate.

An alcove was dug into the wall for a stained glass window. At the end of the hall, elevators – a dead end.

She ducked into the alcove and curled up into as small a ball as possible. Riddle's voice hounded her, echoing off the night. "Oh, and next time, give me more than seven hours' notice when you want a conference call. Abraxas isn't always going to be able to lend me his mobile on demand; the boy is infuriatingly difficult to locate at any given point in time." He turned the corner and his elongated shadow shook its head. "I'm not happy, you realize. There will be consequences for your asinine behavior."

How did Malfoy fit into this, now that she thought of it? Was Riddle simply acting on his behalf? It certainly didn't sound like it.

"Your daughter's health does not excuse your actions." His voice was bitter cold. He hardly even sounded like himself. What had happened to the casual, friendly boy who'd shown her around Hogwarts? The boy who was overconfident, perhaps, but whose actions had all been perfectly normal?

And then he said, "As your superior, I hardly think it's your place to argue, even if our physical distance does prevent me from direct disciplinary action."

_As your superior. Disciplinary action._

He'd never been normal, Hermione realized. He'd lied. She'd given him far too much benefit of the doubt, all because of that stupid crush she'd had on him once.

Her fingernails dug into her palms, and her lips tightened. Business did not mix with matters of the heart. And if she wanted to make a difference, she would have to accept how heartless he was.

He'd manipulated Zara, sexually coerced her. He'd emotionally and psychologically manipulated Hermione. Scholarship student or not – brilliant or not – dammit, handsome or not – it couldn't change that he was a liar. Everything he'd pinned on Malfoy, the Caroline incident, the packet of corruption … she should've gone with her gut. She should have known. Should have gone straight to Dumbledore, not let him soothe her with his tragic background.

And now she was entrenched in his operation.

_Why?_ Why did he want her on his side? Surely he couldn't stoop to thinking he needed her help… though the idea, she had to admit, was flattering. Tom Riddle needing her. Needing her enough to let Abraxas Malfoy raze a bloody burn into his palm.

In any case, she'd have to let it play out, at least until she could find a way to get her hands on a damn copy of those documents. She needed proof.

But in turning him in, would she be turning herself in? She'd been to one of their meetings. She'd talked over economic policy with Riddle, made plans …

She shrank back as he started forward again. His lean figure cut its way through the moonlight, one arm's muscles flexed, the fist clenched so tight it shook. But as he passed the half-boarded-up door, he did a double-take and stopped in his tracks.

Hermione peered out at him as he walked slowly to the door. "Mulciber," he whispered, "I'll have to call you back in a moment. I've just discovered something …" He snapped the phone shut. "…very, very odd."

He trailed his fingers over the holes in the doorframe where the other boards had been screwed in.

Without warning, his head whipped around, checking down each end of the hall. Hermione pulled herself back into the alcove, praying he hadn't seen a lock of her hair flash in retreat. But she seemed safe – his footsteps didn't resume.

When she chanced another glance, he had taken a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and started twisting out the remaining screws.

She sat there until her muscles ached, mulling over the significance of his deception. This meant he was the reason for her parents getting fired. Every bit of information she'd entrusted to him about her life, he'd probably disdained. He really had no clue about what it was like to be poor, did he? Could he really have no place to go but an orphanage, like he'd said, if he was being paid millions a year? He probably had summer homes in Florida and the Caribbean, just like every other person in Hogwarts. He probably wasn't even on scholarship. And he'd _sympathized_ with her, told her he understood the inconveniences of financial restriction. The slimeball.

She fantasized about shoving that sneaky manipulative VoldeMart CEO into that bathroom and walling him up inside it, a la The Cask of Amontillado. And a couple of times, when the muscles of his back flexed through his thin white t-shirt, she fantasized about significantly different events that instantly caused her maximum self-disgust.

Dammit, why was evil so superficially appealing?

He pulled the last board away, laid it on the ground, and opened the door. As he entered, Hermione rose from her place, not knowing exactly what she was doing.

He shut the door after him. _Damn._

She heard four metallic beeps echo out into the hallway.

That was not a normal noise for a bathroom.

Hermione strained to hear more. Was that a creak? The rustling of _papers_? Excitement throttled her. She just had to find out what was in there – what he'd hidden in that bathroom –

It hit her like a hammer to the temple. She staggered back, clasping her hands over her mouth to restrain the squeak that threatened to escape.

Myrtle.

Myrtle had died in that bathroom. Riddle had hidden secret documents in that bathroom. _Myrtle had found them, and he'd killed her._

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., was a murderer. Dumbledore was right. Of course Dumbledore was right. Every second Riddle treaded the halls of Hogwarts, the students were in danger. She needed to report this. She had to report it …

But first, she needed proof.

It all boiled down to those papers.

His footsteps again, and Hermione dove back into the alcove, shivering a bit. Had the stones of Hogwarts always been this cold, this dark, this dirty? Or was it just now that she realized exactly how deep this rabbit hole went, and how far she'd have to crawl to extract herself?

oOo

"Good morning!" Granger sang.

Tom stared her down, unimpressed. She seemed even more peppy than usual. He decided there was a strong positive correlation between her peppiness and how much he wanted to stab her. "You revolt me. You morning people. All of you."

"Oh, Tom, you're so funny and clever," she said in a high, false voice. He scowled, and she continued. "Aren't you excited for another day of chemistry?"

"You know me." He turned toward Slughorn. "Always ready to drink from the fountain of Slughorn's eternal knowledge."

Actually, mused Riddle, there was something to be said for Slughorn. The man knew a lot – even about things not necessarily in his subject area. Tom had, in fact, utilized a couple of tidbits of Slug-knowledge the year before last, after ruining his father and grandparents. A couple of overseas accounts under false names had done the trick – and it was thanks to Sluggy's know-how. Now, even if VoldeMart suddenly crashed, he had a few accounts with millions.

Even if he couldn't access them until after his birthday.

Riddle's jaw tightened. It was November 10th – time had rushed by without warning. Only a month and a half until his fortune would be his.

His lips twitched. The first thing he would do? Go shopping. It was frivolous to the point of irony, and he appreciated irony. (Almost as much as he appreciated Animal Collective.)

Riddle tousled his hair, holding back a yawn. He needed to arrange another meeting later this week, and he needed to make a plan for Granger. So much to do, so few hours in the day.

He realized he hadn't had any sort of sexual gratification in over a week. No wonder his … frustrations had pent up so much in the interim. Perhaps he ought to give Iris Parkinson a call – he'd heard she'd started dating Nick Abbott, but did that really matter? He was _Tom Riddle._ Pretentious Raven Club members who watched Annie Hall movies could wait.

Next to him, Granger shook back her hair, her eyes flicking up and down her paper. Riddle mused – with irony, of course – that he could probably just ask Granger if she wanted to hook up. The girl was absolutely wrapped around his finger at this point. So much so that she'd started to lose her sparkle. She was still intelligent, of course – still, in hypothesis, useful as a business tool – but as a person, that odd sort of intrigue she'd held about her had faded.

He found himself disappointed.

And that was stupid. Why should he want a challenge? What he wanted was for everyone to fall to his feet; that was what he really needed. Some stubborn bint with an obnoxious penchant for being too observant didn't fit into that mold.

Also, it made him uncomfortable how many facts she knew about him. Admittedly, he knew just as many about her, if not more, but still. One did not just _know things_ about Tom Marvolo Riddle. He'd already contacted the Little Hangleton newspaper and asked them to remove the offending articles from Google (as a "matter of sensitivity," he'd called it).

"By the way," Hermione whispered, and flicked something silver across the desk at him. "You should wear this."

It was a badge. The acronym read, _Society for the Protection of Economic Welfare._

Riddle smirked. "Spew?"

"It's not _spew_, it's S.P.E.W."

He settled back in his chair and felt a strange urge to smile. Really smile. He squashed the notion instantly, of course. Tom Riddle did not smile unless intoxicated with some substance or other.

"Fine, fine, I'll wear your damned badge." He pinned it onto his black t-shirt, if only because he needed her to trust him. And because it was ironic.

oOo

Visiting Day came that weekend. When Harry and Ron walked into the Entrance Hall, gazing around with nothing less than awe, Hermione flung herself around their necks. "Thank God you're here. I've been going insane."

She disengaged herself, took a step back, and scrutinized their grinning faces. Harry's skinny features were as rugged as usual, Ron's broad smile as endearing as ever. Affection swept through Hermione, and she hugged them again, tighter. "I have so much to tell you," she whispered. Her mobile's meager minutes had run out, and she hadn't wanted to relegate this conversation to email. "Shall we walk around the grounds?"

"Ooh, _grounds_," said Ron, shooting a glance at Harry.

"Oh, yes, because my school has a _campus_," Harry said, in his most posh accent.

"And its own _train,"_ Ron added.

"And its own _cell phone tower," _Harry said. "And fancy rooms and fancy food and fancy classes no other school has."

Ron sniggered. "I suppose it also gives you magic wands and a pet unicorn when you arrive, does it?"

Hermione sighed. "Do shut up. You two are as bad as Fred and George." She led them down toward the lake, which glimmered in the midday sun.

Once she made sure they were alone, she explained what she'd learned.

Any humor in the boys' faces faded little by little. By the end, Ron had both hands buried in his red hair, and Harry's green eyes were laser-keen.

"So, in short, I've gone in too deep to extract myself until I have concrete evidence," she finished, lying back on the grass. "I don't want to worry you – I'm just letting you know, in case."

"In case _what_?" Ron said indignantly. "Hermione. How do you expect us not to be worried about this? He's a bloody murderer."

She swallowed, trying not to look at Ron for too long. The sight of him, the proximity of him, reminded her too keenly of the feel of his skin. "I'll handle it," she said. "If I think I'm in danger, I'll go straight to Dippet or Dumbledore. That's a promise."

Harry shook his head. "Authority never does anything to help."

"Dumbledore would. I've seen the way he keeps an eye on Riddle. He really doesn't like him."

"With reason," Ron muttered.

Hermione bit her lip and said nothing.

Harry gave her a wary look. "You don't still think of him as a friend, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I just … I'm having difficulty discerning what's true and what's false about what he told me." It was a lie. She couldn't help enjoying being around Tom, even though she knew it was the false Tom. His false face. She'd developed a friendship with a person who didn't exist, and stupidly, selfishly, she didn't want to let go of it.

"The worst part is not being able to talk about it with Mafalda and Zara," Hermione sighed. This part was true; she hadn't told them a thing about her illicit goings-on, not wanting to involve them further in Riddle affairs. Mafalda and Cygnus seemed to be getting serious, which made for good conversation fodder, so the lack of her talking about it wasn't really felt – but Hermione hated having to sever her friends from this part of her life.

"Shall we go to Hogsmeade?" she suggested.

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"That town, about a mile that way." She pointed. "It's got a joke shop, a post office, a sweet shop … I think you'll like it."

"Sweets? Excellent. Let's go," said Harry, standing. Ron and Hermione traded a grin. Some things would never change.

"By the way," she said, "you should wear these badges."

"Wotsit – does this say _Spew_?"

"IT'S NOT _SPEW_."

oOo

Hermione dragged them along to the pool that night. Ron ran into his cousins, the distant Weasleys. Harry and Ron also met – and got along famously with – Mafalda and Zara.

"Oh my _God,_" said Zara. "Harry Potter? You were the one who survived that bombing."

Harry shrugged. "I was one. So it was more luck than anything, really –"

"Wow, still."

Hermione laughed. "I forgot what it's like, being around people who don't know you."

"Must be nice to forget," Harry muttered.

"Cheer up, mate!" roared Ron, shoving another beer into Harry's hand and draining his sixth. "Just dance, it'll be okay."

As Zara steered Ron and Harry into the yelling, jumping, fistpumping crowd, Mafalda eyed their retreating backs. "So," she said to Hermione, "that's your ex-boyfriend? The redhead?"

"Yeah." Hermione shoved her hands in her jeans pockets. "Seeing him again is a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"That happens. I dated Trent last year, you know. It was awkward for a while."

"Trent?" Hermione spluttered. "But he's a Huff'n'Puff."

"Oh, I know. That's why we broke up. I told him to stop being so … well, the pot killed his personality."

"Doesn't Cygnus smoke?"

"Cigarettes." Mafalda folded her meaty arms, raising one thin eyebrow. "And not for much longer, if I've anything to say about it. I've always thought it was awful, his whole crowd smoking. Completely going to ruin their good looks. Such a waste."

Hermione nodded.

Mafalda yawned. "I should probably get to bed. I'm awfully tired."

"But it's only ten."

"Well." She shrugged. "I didn't spend last night in my dorm, if you know what I mean."

Hermione's jaw went slack as Mafalda left, shooting a sly grin over her shoulder.

"I want details," Hermione called after her. "You're not getting off that easily."

A hand on her shoulder. She turned around. "Tom. I … what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Just wondering if you'd like to run some figures."

Her smile faded. "I actually have some friends here for Visiting Day. I haven't seen them since September, so I really wanted to –"

"'Mione!" Ron's voice called, and his warm hand grabbed her arm, pulling her around. "Come dance. Please?"

She saw Ron's eyes fall on Riddle, saw the recognition in his face as his hand slackened on her arm. Harry made his way out of the crowd with eyes fixed on Riddle, too.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Tom, these are my best friends."

"Harry Potter. Ron Weasley." Riddle nodded. "Hermione doesn't shut up about you."

"And you're Tom Riddle," Harry said. "She doesn't shut up about you, either."

"Harry," Hermione hissed. Why had he said that? Oh, this was not good, the combative Harry being in such close proximity to Tom. Conflict was inevitable. She had to separate them somehow.

Riddle wore a slight smirk. He brushed his hair back. "I see you two have joined Spew as well."

"It's S.P.E.W.," Ron said.

Hermione laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. "An hour ago, you were calling it Spew, too, Ronald."

The tips of Ron's ears went red, and he muttered something.

"What was that?" Riddle said coolly.

"Nothing, nothing," Hermione said. "You know, Tom, if this _school assignment_ is that important, I'll be happy to take a look."

His eyes wandered over Ron for a second longer before he turned his attention back to her. "Yeah," he said softly. "I'd like that."

Why was he using that intimate tone of voice? Hermione fought back a splotchy blush. "Er. All right. I'm sorry, Harry, Ron, we've got to run. This … project."

Harry and Ron traded a look, and then Harry gave a tiny nod.

As Riddle and Hermione headed back through the courtyard, he said, "You're a terrible liar, you know."

"Oh, I know." _I also know I'm a better liar than you will ever realize._

"So, you won't shut up about me, is that right?"

She gritted her teeth. "I'll make you shut up, if you're not careful."

But even as she said it, she realized how perfect a smokescreen a seeming crush would be. His inflated ego would see her false infatuation, and her other, far more important concealments would fade into the background.

Hermione was embarrassed to think how easy it would be to pretend to be interested in him.

He opened the door for her, and they went inside.

* * *

**X**

**X**

**X**

**EEEK I wrote a chapter**

**I'm going to write others now**

**-speechwriter**


	11. Punny Chapter Title Forthcoming

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**Speechwriter**

* * *

"All right." She rubbed her hands together.

"Drink?" Riddle straightened up from the tiny fridge in the corner. Hermione had one, too, but hers was empty. And Tom now held two glasses of Fyre's Best Whiskey.

Hermione blinked. "Hang on, are you eighteen yet?"

"I … could be."

She narrowed her eyes. "In that case, how on earth did you get your hands on that?"

"It's not hard."

"That doesn't answer my question in the least."

"I know."

She gave him an unimpressed look. "Are they _still_ not checking ID at the Hog's Head?"

"Nope." He smirked, cracked the beer open with his teeth, and spat out the bottle top. It clattered into the rubbish bin, and Tom took a swig. "None for you, then?"

"I'm quite all right." She turned a few pages. "Look, there's something strange about this subsidiary. Marked Dark."

"Electricity, yeah?"

"Yes, that's right." Hermione bit her lip. "Their log of repairs and services isn't lined up chronologically, like it should be. And some of these charges have variances in numbers that don't make any sense at all."

Riddle sat at his desk and held out a hand. "Can I see those?"

She handed him the papers. He hardly even glanced at them before placing the sheaf on his desk. "You do know these weren't what I wanted to talk about, right? I'm going to be speaking to Abraxas soon about the problems in that …" He waved a hand at the stack. "…thing."

Hermione nearly snorted. _Talking to Abraxas._ As if. Riddle had probably known about the issues from the outset – come to think of it, he must have orchestrated the whole damn thing himself. "What is it, then?" she said.

"I'm sure you're aware that other companies are cutting their prices closer and closer to wholesale to try and match our prices."

"Yes."

"I'm worried that they might also start outsourcing their jobs, in an effort to halve their wholesale costs."

Hermione barely kept her lip from curling. The way he'd said it was phrased to sound like he was worried about the outsourcing, but of course, he was only really worried about the increased competition.

She couldn't keep her eyes from falling on the corruption packet on his desk. Damn him – he wasn't going to let it out of his sight. Unless his overconfidence got so far that he would never believe that she would cross him … unless she convinced him that he was her single priority. She had to steer the conversation carefully.

She sighed. "Tom Riddle, worried? Isn't that a bit unusual?"

He lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke across the room at her. "Less usual than for most people, yes."

Hermione tried to bite back her complaint, but she couldn't help it. "I hope you enjoy the sweet scent of those carcinogens."

"Oh, I do."

"Well, I don't. If you could put it out, please."

He was silent for a while, appearing to be counting to ten. "Hermione. I'm seventeen years old. What, do you think I'm going to topple over in asphyxiation within the hour?"

"You're not invincible," she said. "You're not resistant to a deadly disease just because you're young."

"Are you really that concerned for my health?"

Hermione smiled inwardly. He'd made this so easy. Time to set the plan into action. "If you must know, yes, I am!" she said, blushing, sort of detesting how natural it was to make herself blush under his scrutiny. She sat back on his bed and folded her arms.

Tom was a bit lost for words for a second. That was straightforward, even for Granger. His hunch must have been correct – she'd fallen for his nice boy act. Sort of pathetic, really, the splotchy red in her cheeks, the righteous anger in her averted gaze.

Sort of pathetic … and sort of flattering.

Flattering? Odd – he thought he'd squashed the ability to feel flattery a long time ago.

Sort of satisfying, too…

And something else.

Too many emotions. It rattled him a little. Was this bizarre resurgence because … perhaps because she'd refused to be impressed by anything he did for a seeming eternity? Yes, that had to be it. The satisfaction at her words wasn't at all because he _cared_ about Granger's opinion, or because he thought she had a worthwhile worldview, set of opinions, et cetera; the feeling of flattery wasn't because she had the sharpest mind he'd ever encountered, and thus talking to her was more than just _not boring_, it was actually rather stimulating and intriguing; the odd unidentifiable feeling was most assuredly _not_ that he found a flustered Hermione delightful in its own strange way, as amusing as the way she overreacted to everything, as strangely magnetic as the way emotions spilled out of her as much as he kept his locked away …

It was not because of any of that.

It was all because she'd been so stubborn for so long.

Yes.

Tom cleared his throat. "Er," he said, and instantly felt horrified at himself. _Er?_ 'Er' was one of the few words not in his vocabulary. Tom Riddle did not say _er_ like some wretched stumbling schoolboy. Tom Riddle said things with dark confidence and sheer charisma, things that no one could contradict, things as demanding as they were irresistible, things like … "Well, I. Uh."

He nearly cursed. _Not that either._

"Yes?" Hermione said, and lifted one eyebrow.

Tom yanked the power in the conversation back with both hands. "What are you trying to say, Ms. Granger? Do enlighten me." He took another drag, standing up and blowing smoke toward the mirror. The haze masked his face, and he stared at himself for a second, settling back into his usual state. Who did the girl behind him think she was, to rattle him with a simple declaration of _yes, I care_? It wasn't even that much. It was _yes, I'm concerned for your health._ Not even remotely … romantic.

And if she wanted romance, Tom Riddle could oblige. Not that he found her attractive. Not really, anyway. But if she wanted to challenge him … he would rise to her bait, and he would win.

He blinked a couple times. Weren't they supposed to be on the same side? What had happened to that?

Her voice shocked him out of his thoughts, and he was horrified at how sultry it sounded. That was not a voice that should come from plain, bookish, bossy Hermione Granger. Where on earth had she dug up that voice? How?

"Well, Mr. Riddle," said The Voice, "if you take that cigarette from your mouth, I'll show you exactly what I mean."

When he turned around, she was on her feet. He nearly sighed in relief, looking at her. From hearing The Voice, he'd almost expected her to have turned into some glowing goddess, but she looked exactly the same as normal. Not at ease, though unpleasantly overconfident; prepared, though neither primped nor polished.

Tom Riddle realized his hands had gone cold. They were not yet perspiring, but the abrupt change in temperature meant that, biologically, it was only a matter of time until they sweated, and that made him nervous, and his nervousness made him angry, and his anger made him appalled at himself. Why all the _emotion_? Why all the messy, stupid, unnecessary _emotion?_ Maybe it was contagious, and Hermione was leaking it all over his bedroom.

What an unappealing thought.

Tom registered what exactly she'd said. _If you take that cigarette from your mouth, I'll show you exactly what I mean._ Far too suggestive. Very inappropriate.

His eyes wandered up and down her body, which, to his relief, stopped her in her tracks. He'd sort of assumed she was dumpy, but that was probably because he'd never taken the time to look at her body, being far too preoccupied with that distracting _personality_ thing. She was no Zara Johnson, and she was neither svelte nor willowy nor buxom. Not dumpy, though. Just … normal.

Tom didn't know why he was suddenly expecting her to be something _other_ than average. This was Hermione Granger. Her biggest asset was inside her head, and he was well aware of that. He was not sexually aware of people who were intellectually useful. It was not … just not … it simply wasn't … prudent.

The silence was growing uncomfortably tense.

He plucked the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it into the rubbish bin behind him. "All right," he said, "it's gone. Do go on."

Granger swallowed. "Erm," she said. The Voice had disappeared, thank God. "Firstly, you should really be careful where you're putting those cigarettes. They can smolder for hours, you know."

He rolled his eyes.

She scowled. "And I don't … I shouldn't …"

"Yes?"

"It just bothers me that you have such a blatant disregard for yourself."

"Blatant … disregard for myself," he repeated, unbelieving. The most important thing in Tom Riddle's life was Tom Riddle. What was she talking about?

"You smoke. You do all sorts of … other things. Don't deny it. Oh, and I never see you eating or drinking anything that doesn't involve alcohol. And, _and_! And Malfoy has probably done any number of terrible things to you while you've been in his employment. You're promiscuous, yet completely detached from everyone, which means you're probably in a state of extreme emotional deprivation. And … in short, I think any sense of normality you may have had is likely close to dead." She cleared her throat. "Just … just saying."

"Normality." He took a step toward her – hardly a foot between them, now, inches he could hardly stand – and looked her dead in the eye with masked hatred. "You think I'm normal."

A tiny smile grew on her lips. He nearly punched it off her mouth.

"Oh, I don't think you could be close to normal if you tried," she said.

His hate melted into triumph. Satisfaction. They warred and battled and cheered in his chest. Granger knew he was exceptional. Not normal at all. And he hadn't even had to explain his brilliance to her, despite her stubbornness.

Once he realized exactly what was going on, he did his best to stifle the triumph, but it was like trying to bottle an explosion. _What in the name of all that is holy is happening?_

Then he hated her again, for making this happen. For making his composure erupt into something unplanned.

"You're pretty abnormal yourself," he said.

Hermione's face scrunched into a frown. She nearly hit him. _Do you mind_? she wanted to yell. _I'm trying to build up a sexual mood here, and you are ruining everything._

Then again, he was very close to her.

In fact, she could have leaned forward and rested her head on his chest, tucked herself under his chin.

Was she brave enough to close the deal? To seal the merger? She nearly snickered at the thought of a _merger._ If Tom Riddle was VoldeMart, then she was not some other company to be bought; she was the goddamn United Nations. She would crush him under her sanctioned fist of regulations and she would feel not a drop of remorse.

His eyes were very soft.

He was probably doing that on purpose.

"I am not abnormal," she said, gathering her courage. "I'm just something the world has never seen." And she held her head high, shook back her hair in defiance, did not rest her head on his chest or tuck herself under his chin. She would never give in. She would never be submissive.

And that was something his world had never seen.

Riddle's mouth twitched, as if to smile, as if he'd wanted to, but had stopped himself. "Oh, I know, Granger," he said.

She felt stupidly proud of herself. Then she wanted to slap herself for being proud that he recognized her uniqueness. Actually, she wouldn't have minded slapping _him_, either_._

"And how very obnoxious it is," he finished.

"_Obnoxious_?" The slapping instinct swelled. "I'm the obnoxious one here?"

"You're pretty obnoxious, yeah."

She scrutinized every inch of him, the fine stubble on the edge of his jaw, the tiny creases on his full upper lip, the narrow stretch of skin between his dark eyelashes and his serious brow. "If I'm obnoxious," she said, "you're insufferable."

"You don't seem to be suffering much." The half-smile he gave her made her fists clench in something like utter fury. She was supposed to be seducing him, not the other way around. She was supposed to be convincing him how head-over-heels she was for him so she could betray the hell out of him; he wasn't actually supposed to be showing any _interest._ This made things annoying and difficult.

And all this while Harry and Ron were a mere walk away. She should have been with them. Why was she alone in Tom Riddle's room? Was this a safe situation? She thought not. How _dare_ he drag her away from her best friends when she hadn't seen them in months? How dare he lie to her; how dare he rely on his façade to get her on his side; how dare he call her obnoxious on top of all of it; how dare he be so – goddamn – attractive –

"Oh, fuck it," she said, and grabbed the front of his v-neck shirt, and pulled him down, and her lips crashed to his.

He tasted like smoke and sin.

He grabbed her around the waist, twisted her toward the wall, and pushed against her. She shoved back, winding a hand into his stupid messy hair, breathing in the stupid delicious cologne he had on, battling against his stupid talented possessive lips. And God, she hated that she enjoyed kissing him; it just wasn't fair. She let her anger drive her, her brow furrowing as she kissed him fiercely, pressing forward until he knocked into the bed.

She felt his lips smile under hers.

"What are you grinning about?" she growled onto his mouth. He never smiled unless he was laughing at her, and this was not funny.

"What are you _not_ grinning about?" he said, and that took her aback. She pulled back, eyeing him. Was he implying that he was enjoying this? Ron had never told her she was a good kisser. Victor had never said anything about it, either, so she'd just sort of assumed she was average, or slightly below. And Tom had probably kissed half the damn school – he had a point of reference.

"If you must know," she said, letting go of his t-shirt, "kissing you is like licking an ashtray. I'm surprised no one's told you." Total lie. But he seemed to buy it.

Riddle's mouth actually opened at her words. After floundering for a second, he let go of her waist and stormed to his peacoat, which lay slung over the back of his desk chair. He popped four mints at once, pretending not to be bothered by how they froze and burned his mouth. He'd show her. Licking an ashtray? He'd never had any complaints about _how his mouth tasted_, for shit's sake.

She folded her arms and sat back on his bed, messing with her hair, perusing him with those expectant hazel eyes. He wanted to throttle her, a little. He wanted to have sex with her, sort of a lot.

What was the world coming to?

Tom yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Basking in the way her eyes fixed on his abdomen, he folded his arms. "Your turn," he said.

"My turn to what?"

"Go on. Let's see."

"You want me to take off my shirt?" she said, with a stupid-sounding cackle. Then she sobered up. "Why, what do you think we're doing here?"

"Foreplay."

"Ha. Funny. _No_."

He smirked, approaching her. "Oh, let me change your mind."

"Feel free to try. I'm not having sex with you."

"You don't want to?"

"Wanting to do something and actually doing something are completely different things," Granger said, stretching out on his bed. "That's why human beings have moral compasses."

He didn't miss the stern look she shot him. What was that supposed to mean? A pointed comment about a moral compass, just because he had a libido? For Christ's sake.

"How in hell's name would it be amoral for us to have sex if we both want to?" Riddle said, throwing himself back in his desk chair.

"Because we probably want it for different reasons," she muttered, almost under her breath.

"What was that?"

"I said, because we probably want it for different reasons, Riddle."

"And what's yours, then?"

She snorted. "What's _yours_?"

He opened his mouth, but words didn't come out. His jaw snapped shut, and he shrugged.

"Oh, you don't _know_? You probably just haven't gotten any in a month and thought you'd ask for the hell of it, am I right?"

Riddle didn't miss the indignation in her voice. "A _month? _You don't think I could sleep with someone whenever I want?" he said, with equal indignation.

"I think it's disgusting that you have that mentality," she fired back, sitting up. "And I think it's revolting that you said _let me change your mind,_ like coercion is somehow not rape."

"So now I'm a rapist." He raised a hand in disgust. "Great."

"No, thank God," she sniffed, "because my better sensibilities prevented me from doing something I'd regret later."

"_Regret?_" He stood up, approached the bed, and kissed her hard, tried his best to kiss the word off her mouth. _Regret_. Like any girl had ever regretted a night spent with him.

She molded her body up against him. She didn't kiss like any girl he'd ever met – she kissed like she was trying to prove something.

It felt like she was lighting him on fire.

He leaned forward, leaned into her, pressed her back into the mattress. His hand slid up her shirt, but she smacked it away. "Nope," she breathed onto his lips, running her hands up the muscles of his bare chest. She gripped his shoulder and maneuvered the pair of them back onto their feet, moving him back toward the window.

Tom yanked the curtains shut. "How is this fair?" he said, his hands settling on her hips. "I'm half-naked, and you're just … here."

"This is fair because you don't even care about me."

He tugged away from her, stopped breathing in the musky scent of her hair. She looked vulnerable all of a sudden, like she'd unveiled some great secret. "I … what did you say?" Tom said. So unless he cared about her, she wouldn't let him get farther than a kiss? What really caught him off-guard, though, was how she'd said _you don't care about me_ in such an assertive tone of voice, like there wasn't even a question.

Was she right?

Of course she was. Just because he'd gotten used to her – just because he'd grown to know and understand her on more than one level – didn't mean he cared.

Did it?

"Not the way I … care about …" Hermione stopped and half-turned. "You."

Suddenly, the air weighed a million tons on Tom's shoulders. Shit. _Shit._ His hunch had been right, but he hadn't expected her to act on it like _that_. What was he supposed to say? Girls never said it like _that,_ they asked him if he wanted to go on a date, and that was usually after they'd already been to a few bases. They always wanted to seem so cool, like they didn't care whether or not he said yes. Saying it like … like _this_ … was so socially backwards, Tom didn't know where to start.

"Er," he said. That damn word. _Er._

If it hadn't been Hermione Granger – if it had been Zara Johnson – what would he have said?

He started preparing some slick line, but stopped halfway through. This was not Zara Johnson. It _was_ Hermione Granger. And she would know if he said something untrue, something empty and insincere.

Would she? He'd been lying to her for a while now, the entire Abraxas thing … it wasn't impossible to deceive her.

But she looked at him now with shielded eyes, with eyes that probed and hoped and lusted for his affections. Eyes that analyzed all, eyes that knew all. He somehow felt that he could not bring himself to lie to that look on her face.

Which was stupid.

So, so stupid.

He forced himself to confront the hideous possibility: Had the girl grown on him, by virtue of nothing other than being herself?

Hermione, for her part, found herself baffled by the look on his face. He almost looked like he was about to contradict her.

Did he care?

Stupid thought. Of course he didn't. If he cared, he'd tell her the truth.

Why did it matter, anyway? She was just trying to make him believe she would do anything for him. She didn't _actually_ care – he just had to think she cared. And it looked like it was working.

Hermione swallowed, analyzing the immaculate pale skin of his chest. Being so stubborn about the sex thing was not a good course of action, if she really wanted him to believe she couldn't double-cross him …

But she was a little scared. She had no romantic notions about her virginity, but it wasn't as if she wanted to throw it away on a business plan. It wasn't as if she wanted to throw it away on a boy who'd deceived her and her friends alike, a boy who had _killed someone._

"What if I said I did care?" Riddle said, and the odd sort of pain in his voice grabbed her by the throat.

"You … what?" Hermione turned back to him. _No._ That couldn't be right. Tom Riddle didn't care about anyone. He'd shown that time and again, every time he'd lied …

This was probably a lie.

Yes. It had to be just another lie.

"I think … you should go," he said.

Hermione stood there for a moment, listening to the aftermath of his words ring in the air.

When she passed the table with the sheaf of papers, she wanted so badly to reach out and grab them, to bring them back to her room where things made sense. She wanted to take them out of the custody of this bewildering boy, who seemed cut-and-dry in all but real life.

After all, when she was alone, the more time she spent thinking about him, the more she was sure she detested him.

But after so long, the jibes with each other and the clash of their gazes and the final electric union of their skin … it was so hard to be sure of anything.

Hermione cast a glance back at him before reaching the door. He faced out the window, the muscles of his back tensed and taut.

Only after she was gone did Tom Riddle cast his glance after her.

He wasn't sure exactly what had just happened, but he felt somehow that they had both lost the game they'd been trying to play.

In any case, he definitely had not won. And that ought to have made him angry to the point of physical violence.

But he was not angry.

And that terrified him.

oOo

The next day, they actively ignored each other. And in doing so, they both realized exactly how much they'd grown accustomed to each other's company. No snarky comments from Tom about the state of Hermione's hair in Chemistry. None of her impatient preaching in Economics, or excitement over some irregular declension in Latin.

Hermione realized she should have come up with a Plan B. Emotional manipulation was, evidently, not her forte. She would have liked to think pretending to be in love with him would be a snap, but that was only in hypothesis. The fact that he was a real person, with feelings (presumably) and reactions (definitely) to everything she did, complicated matters far too much.

She could try stealing the papers some other way. Sneak into his room in the middle of the night and call Harry and Ron to come and get her after she'd gotten the packet … but no. Harry and Ron would need a flying car or something to get all the way out to Hogwarts – there were no roads for miles around, just the train line. She needed him either to give the papers to her of his own volition, or for him to be distracted long enough that she could mail them.

Alternatively, she could just grab them and run to Dumbledore. Have Tom expelled. Probably arrested.

Didn't he deserve it?

Yes. He'd killed someone. He ought to be locked up.

But he'd grown up in an orphanage, grown up parentless and abused …

Lies. Those were lies.

Hermione bit her lip. She didn't actually know if they were lies – but wasn't it safe to assume? Going off his previous actions, she could guess that he was probably just a spoiled-rotten trust fund child who thought he'd romanticize his living situation to sway her.

But she did sort of want to make sure.

Why? What difference should it make what background he came from? He'd turned out bad, and that was all she needed to know.

"What is wrong with you?" Mafalda said, snapping her fingers in front of Hermione's eyes. "You've been completely out of it all day. And you didn't say a word in economics, which sort of makes me worried that the apocalypse is near or something."

"Oh, no, no. It's just." Hermione waved a hand. "Just a bit preoccupied, now that Harry and Ron are gone."

"Harry is so fit," Zara said.

Hermione shot her a scowl. "And so taken."

Zara sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. All the good ones are."

Mafalda gave Hermione a hearty pat on the back. "You're not still in love with Ron, are you?"

"I … no, I had to force myself out of it before I came here."

"Ouch," Zara said quietly. "That must have been hard."

"It was."

They sat in silence for a second. Hermione swallowed the massive lump in her throat and waved a hand. "Anyway … I, enough about that. Mafalda, there's a swim meet today, right?"

"Yeah. Want to come? Though I'll admit, it's not exactly a spectator sport." Mafalda chuckled, her pigtails bouncing.

"Course I'll come," Hermione and Zara said at the same time. They exchanged a grin.

"It'll be odd seeing the pool without half-drunk people lurching around it," Hermione mused.

And it was. The Griffin's Door folk had scrubbed the place down to the bare rock, and bobbing plastic divisors split the pool into six lanes. Metal risers had been set up for spectators further back in the courtyard. Hermione and Zara sat at the top.

"Which event did Mafalda say she's swimming, again?" said Zara, peering down at the collecting swimmers.

"The 200 meter freestyle, I think."

"When'll that be?" Zara asked. Hermione shrugged, and her friend let out a sigh. "Sorry, I get impatient waiting around. You think we could go down and talk to the boys?"

"Go ahead. I'm sure they won't mind, if it's not their event."

"I mean, you're coming with me, of course."

"What? No, really, it's fine."

Zara grabbed Hermione's arm. "Let's go."

Hermione protested all the way down, but shut up when they got within earshot of the men's team. Cygnus Black stood amid the clump of swimmers, and she needed to keep face around anyone in Riddle's band.

Did they know Riddle was lying? Were all of them in on it, too? Aquilus Lestrange was also on the swim team – he and Cygnus kept shooting her glances that were probably meant to be subtle. Lestrange tucked his brown hair behind his ear and looked away, his lips pursing. Black also seemed singularly uneasy.

One of the officials for the meet walked over to address the boys before Hermione or Zara could reach them.

"Damn," Zara muttered.

But long minutes passed, and the man didn't leave.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Hermione said. "There seems to be a bit of a fuss." Cygnus was folding his arms over his grey swim shirt, sticking out his jaw in defiance. The official lifted a hand up in seeming exasperation, and Hermione caught snatches of his lecture.

"No, I'm telling you that you _can't_ … or else you'll just have to sit … _no exceptions_ …"

A muscle flexed in Cygnus's jaw, and he turned away. The official stormed off.

A few seconds later, Cygnus finally took off his shirt.

"He's gone," Zara said. "Come on, let's go."

"Who do you even want to talk to?" But Hermione didn't listen to the answer to her question, because as she got closer, her eyes caught the scar on Cygnus's chest.

V.

It looked nasty.

She rounded on Aquilus, who stood mere feet away. A fine line of scarring lay on his left pectoral, too, though it was mostly covered by skin-colored makeup. Unless someone had been looking for it, they wouldn't see it.

V.

_No._ Surely Riddle couldn't be that sick.

Zara had started talking to a couple of the boys, but Hermione squeaked, "I feel sort of ill, I've got to run," and she ran.

This had to stop now.

The halls of Hogwarts flew by. In contrast, the elevator ride seemed painfully slow. Hermione knew for a fact that Riddle was helping Slughorn with lab materials in the dungeons; he wouldn't be done for an hour, at least. Still, though – every second she delayed was a second wasted.

She snatched up her screwdriver from her room and went to work on the lock on his door.

Hogwarts' locks were old and clunky, loose around the edges. Once she got the tip of the flathead wedged in the crack between lock and slot, she gave one mighty yank, and the bolt flew back.

Hermione almost couldn't believe her own nerve. She checked over her shoulder and stalked inside.

Where were those papers? Before, they'd lain atop the desk, but now they were nowhere to be seen. Hermione rooted through his desk drawers, checked under his bed, his mattress, and even inside his pillowcase, trying to ignore the smell. The soft, smoky, faraway smell of him.

Nothing.

Nothing in his closet. Nothing in the drawers of perfectly stacked clothes. Nothing between the pages of his textbooks.

Had he sent them to Mulciber?

Hermione threw herself on his bed, her jaw locked so tight her teeth ached. Dammit, dammit – why hadn't she broken in sooner? If she'd just mustered up the initiative – if she'd just –

She almost yelled in frustration. Instead, she sat upright, took several deep calming breaths, and checked around one last time. Against her will, she found herself analyzing what his life was like. Compartmentalized to a T. Stacked away in an inconspicuous drawer, like his password-protected computer and his shabby possessions. Secretly opulent, secretly rooted in evil, like the company of which there was no evidence here.

No evidence that he did any schoolwork, either. No evidence that he partied or did drugs or slept around. The room almost felt like no one lived there, and it unsettled her.

Even the calendar on the back of his door was empty. Why did he have it in the first place?

Except – one date had writing. The 31st of December.

It said in small letters, _my birthday._

And a pang of loneliness hit Hermione, rocketed through her. The shred of humanity on this empty calendar – the tiniest evidence that he cared about things like this, trivial matters like birthdays –outlined the stark cold nature of the rest of the place. Tom Riddle was so scared to care. Tom Riddle was so devoted to the long-term that the only thing reminding him to be human was his own mortality.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to pity him.

But it helped to understand.

When she left, she felt as if she'd stripped the room of its dignity. It was a sad place and a dark place and now there was no more mystery to it. The only mystery lay in that bathroom, locked away behind screws and wood and mechanics and electronics.

Hermione was done exploring Tom Riddle's façade. It was time to hack to his core, and she would be ruthless, and she would be merciless. She didn't care how hard the manipulation would be. She could handle it.

He would trust her. And she would destroy him.

And he deserved it.

oOo

Tom could've sworn he'd locked the door behind him. It didn't matter, though – he'd shipped off those papers during lunch, and that was the only incriminating thing in the room. Even if someone decided to snoop around, they wouldn't find anything.

The day without conversation with Granger had been oddly tiring. He'd been humiliated time and again by the realization that he'd come to rely on their interactions, in one way or another. Even if only to pass time. Even if only to hear a viewpoint he knew would be opposite his. Even if only to try and decipher her strange way of peering into his eyes, like she was about to critique the very way he thought.

She'd dug in her grip, and such attachment was foolish.

Tom Riddle arrived at his room that evening tight-lipped and frustrated. What was he supposed to do, surgically remove her? He'd already embedded her in this business, done all that manipulation with Malfoy. He had the right-hand woman he needed – and she was cooperating. Everything was going as planned, right?

Except that his bizarre reliance on her made him uneasy.

As he locked the door behind him, he reassured himself that it would not be difficult to ditch her when the time came. For fuck's sake, he'd killed a girl to save his skin. Economically ruining another was a tiny matter.

Casting her back into poverty, where she belonged.

Riddle found himself frowning, and he didn't know why. He worked his face back into placidity.

He just needed to hold on until his birthday.

Five short weeks.

x

x

x

* * *

**Yay! Building to the climax... (entendre intended)**

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**s.w.**


	12. Greddie Mac and Forge

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* * *

"Today," Dumbledore said, "we'll be discussing Social Darwinism."

Hermione sat up a little straighter. She'd done a research paper on Social Darwinism the year before, but she expected some new information, given that Albus Dumbledore was teaching. She still hadn't quite adjusted to the idea that a Nobel Prize winner sat in front of her twice a week and gave her his knowledge. Admittedly, it got odd at points. "Evolution," Dumbledore would say, "is sometimes like a trying to bake a cake with no eggs." And he wouldn't explain himself at all. He'd just move back to some point he'd dropped minutes ago.

But Hermione didn't expect to be baffled at any point during a lecture on Social Darwinism. She'd analyzed it from all angles in her paper. Nothing he could say could surprise her.

"Social Darwinism," said Dumbledore, "should be thought of like sex."

Hermione emitted a hiccupping noise. A couple students cleared their throats. "What?" said Iris Parkinson, loudly.

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses on his long nose and steepled his fingers together. "Consider this, my dear pupils. You are a beautiful person. You look in the mirror every day, and you see … you see your own beautiful face. You have sexual relationships with individuals who worship your body, and due to the segregation of equal natures, most of these sexual partners are also in pristine physical and sexual condition."

He swept away from the desk, his hands in the pockets of his long purple coat. "You become accustomed to the perfection of your body. Imagine what effect it has on you when you're exposed to the opposite."

"Revulsion," Hermione said.

"Yes, exactly," said Professor Dumbledore. "A term from the Latin _revellere_, to pull away, Ms. Granger. You physically pull yourself from the banality you see in others; you create a barrier; you put a wall between your self-identity and the identity you perceive others to have. You see your beauty as natural, as correct, and everything else seems wrong to you. It disgusts you."

He paced calmly. "You become addicted to sex because of what it does for you. You pursue it aggressively and selfishly. You forget what it may be like for those who are not as beautiful, those who do not have the privilege of sleeping with people as sexually gifted as your partners." A slow sigh. "Often, extreme sexuality, and extreme beauty, yield extreme narcissism. And when you associate yourself with the pinnacle of perfection, where does it lead?"

He looked around at them, blue eyes looking unusually shrewd. "It leads, my dear students, to hatred of the so-called inferior. Hatred of the _otherness._"

Dumbledore wrote the word on the board. _OTHERNESS._

Hermione's eyes stuck to it. It took physical effort for her to direct her gaze elsewhere.

"Now make this situation an infinitesimal amount less superficial," Dumbledore said softly, "and apply it to wealth instead of appearance. You are a group of privileged people. Instead of remembering how you came to that wealth, you only see your current state of things, and its positivity. Likewise, you do not see how things _were_ for others; you see how they _are._ You have molded your mind to the privilege, and you can no longer fathom that the _otherness_ cannot correct itself."

Hermione had never heard a classroom so silent. The class wasn't small, either. Every one of the thirty students was stock-still, struck by the lecture.

"I use sex as an analogy," Dumbledore said, "because I wager that you, as teenagers, have made recent discoveries of a sexual nature. And these are often intensely personal and emotional, which helps when one is trying to give an extended metaphor its due weight." His brow creased, and he sat back in his chair. "Funnily enough, one's sexual life is perceived as far more personal than one's financial and socioeconomic life. I think this is a sad and detrimental thing. I do think this is sad."

Long seconds passed in silence. Dumbledore's gaze did not move from the papers in front of him. Hermione's eyes pinned themselves, again, to the _otherness_ on the board.

She felt more alone than she had in a while.

"Shall we look at it from another angle?" Dumbledore's voice hardly carried. He seemed to have distressed even himself. "We are now a group of people who have never known financial privilege. We grow up appreciating the value of a single pound; we waste not and want not. Ah, but how easy it is to paint us paupers as instantly and rightfully sympathetic! – not so. We are scrounging, penny-pinching, and selfish in our own right. We are as disgusted by the rich as they are by us, but unlike them, our disgust is not tempered by pity. It is tempered only by the knowledge that we hold, the knowledge that envy is wrong."

Hermione thought, _That's unfair._ But she forced herself to consider the words, as repugnant as they were. Hadn't her family refused charity before because they didn't want the help of someone rich? Hadn't her pride always tainted her judgment, a stupid sense of pride?

Yes, it was unfair of him to generalize, but it wasn't unfair to _her_. When it came to her, he was right. The only thing she hated about Ron and Harry was their richness, because it showed her own ability to hold wells of jealousy deep as oil pits.

Another silence.

Iris stuck a hand into the air. "I don't think this is right. I don't think you can make a blanket statement about something like this, saying rich people don't deserve to be rich and poor people are all obsessed with money."

"Some rich surely do deserve to be where they are. But others …" Dumbledore tilted his head. "Do you think, Ms. Parkinson, that a poor person of no more than average talent, intellect, and appearance could climb the ranks into those of the astronomically wealthy?"

"Well, no, but if they're so average, why do they deserve to be astronomically wealthy?"

Dumbledore gave a sad smile. "And that is the foundation of Social Darwinism. You see -"

"I'm not done. I don't think it's right for you to speak to us like this, Professor. I don't think this sort of lecture is at all appropriate."

He nodded. "As long as you have learned something, a certain measure of impropriety is always acceptable."

Iris opened her mouth, but closed it again. Her pale cheeks flushed.

Hermione fidgeted. In the silence born anew, her eyes strayed back to the board.

_Other._

She would always be something _other_.

At the end of the class, the students filing out remained strangely sober and silent.

"You all right, Iris?" Hermione asked, tapping the blonde on the shoulder.

She shrugged. "Dunno. I feel like that lesson was supposed to make us all feel selfish and undeserving. It's not our fault he teaches at a private school; where does he get off talking like that?" Iris sighed, meeting Hermione's eyes. "Irregardless, I think it's just silly to propose that only rich people think being poor is awful. I'm sure poor people find it revulsive, too."

_Repulsive,_ thought Hermione, as they headed toward the Great Hall.

"And I'm sure you could link that to more than self-image," Iris said. "There are probably festations in … you know. Ambitions and personality."

"Festations?"

"Sorry. Manifestations."

"Manifested in ambitions," Hermione said quietly. "Yes, I bet you're right." She bit her lip. "I bet you're right … I should go."

"Bye."

Hermione headed back up the Grand Staircase, her mind spinning. _Ambitions._ She knew her own, but what were Riddle's ambitions? What did he need to go to the Slug Club for, if he was already the CEO of VoldeMart? Why did he need to deceive Hermione into joining them, if he already had his band of minions around him?

Some piece was not fitting into place.

_The way he's always angry with Abraxas. The way his eyes get colder when he talks about Cygnus. The way he said__, "If you didn't know, 'friendship' is mutually decided upon. We're only friends if we both like each other."_ Discontent in the ranks. Her entry into their circle …

Hermione stopped halfway up the stairs, biting her nails. How did she work into all of this? Why would he spend so much time and energy conniving, strategizing, manipulating, just for _her_? He knew she was against the fundamental nature of the company, because it was so economically irresponsible.

Slug Club … Tom helping Slughorn put away those test tubes … _"Slughorn's a great guy," _he'd said; _"I've known him for a few years now._"

Great for what? Why was Riddle so friendly with the Chemistry professor?

Hermione hurried down to the Dungeons, her thoughts still discombobulated. Slughorn sat alone in his classroom, grading papers.

"Professor," she said breathlessly, knocking on the door.

"Ms. Granger! Come in, come in, do come in."

She shut the door behind her. "I have a question."

"Anything, anything!"

"Has Tom Riddle …" She swallowed. "I know he's been helping you outside of class. Has he been getting … extra credit, or something? Higher marks?" Of course, he wouldn't need it. What _would_ he need from Slughorn, though? Enough that he'd waste his precious time with assisting a professor?

Slughorn laughed, his flabby cheeks jiggling. "In a cutthroat race for first in the class, are we? No, no, rest assured, Tom's been getting nothing like that from your old Chemistry teacher." He tapped his nose. "Just enjoys my conversation, I believe."

"Oh." Hermione settled against a desk, trying to clear her expression. "In that case ... if you don't mind me asking, what type of conversations? I must admit, Tom and I have been grating against each other lately – I don't know if it's something I did, or -"

He shook his head, flapping a hand at her. "Oh, dear girl, don't take it to heart. Tom is a capricious fellow. One moment he's withdrawn and clinical and we're discussing molecular theory; the next we're cracking open a bottle of Fyre's Best and having a jolly good…" Slughorn blinked. "I, er."

"You two drink together?" Hermione said, keeping her tone light and humorous. "You should ask me along next time; I'm sure it's great fun."

Slughorn gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, it is. You might learn something, too."

Hermione cursed inwardly. Everything he said was so vague – she didn't know whether or not to read into it. "I learn something every time I talk to Tom," she said. "He did tell me you know an awful lot."

Was it just her, or did the smile on her professor's face droop slightly? "Oh?" Slughorn said. Hermione's heart jumped a little – definitely a note of uncertainty in that word.

"Yes, he's told me quite a bit." Hermione gave him a winning smile.

Slughorn shot a glance at the door. "I hope none of the …?"

"None of the what?"

"Well … you and Tom are quite close, aren't you?"

She shrugged.

"He did ask me that I seat you together," Slughorn rumbled. "And Dippet was telling me the other day that Tom seems … taken with you."

Hermione picked a sheepish grin to mask the suspicion. She rubbed the back of her head. "I … well, yes, I've gotten to know him quite well, since we patrol together."

Slughorn's face grew more serious. "But he hasn't shown you the … has he?"

"The what, Professor?" she said quietly.

He sat back in his chair. "Never mind, never mind. Of course not, he wouldn't … I shouldn't have even … silly of me. You should be going, Ms. Granger, I really must get this grading done. Rest assured, Tom's grades are exactly what they seem."

Hermione clenched her jaw, but kept her tone pleasant. "Yes, sir, I'll see you tomorrow."

She left the classroom still not knowing what she'd gone in to find, still not knowing what she'd left with. She left the classroom significantly more frustrated than she'd been going in.

She stormed down the hall. If she could just find Tom Riddle's secret diary or something, everything would be so much damn easier –

Hermione's phone buzzed in her pocket. She flipped it open with unnecessary vehemence. "Yes, what?"

"Hermione, dear," said her mother.

"Oh. Mum."

"Are you all right? You sound worried."

"No, no, I'm fine. Just … studying." Hermione approached the steps out of the Dungeons. Just as she turned the corner to start up the stairwell, Josiah Zabini barged out. They collided with a nasty smack. Hermione let out a yell and fell hard to the floor, tearing the knees of her jeans, and her phone flew out of her hand. It dashed against the stone floor, landing face-up. She stared. The screen had shattered.

Hermione snapped. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Do you know what that's going to cost to replace?"

Josiah's face was already creased with anger. She snapped right back. "Oh my God, big fucking deal. Just bloody get a new one."

Hermione scrambled to her feet, storming forward, her hands balled up in rage. "What if I can't _just bloody get a new one_? What if I can't just shoot daddy an email on my one-and-a-half-thousand-pound laptop and ask for a new mobile phone? What if I can't just get new jeans any damn time I please?"

"What on earth are you two going on about?" said a bewildered Iris, heading down the stairs behind Josiah.

"No fucking idea," Josiah said. "I've had the most shit day of my life, and now I've broken Hermione's phone and you'd think it was the end of the world."

"I need that phone!" Hermione yelled. "That's my first one ever, and I've broken it in two weeks! My parents are going to kill me!"

"Your first phone?" Iris said, her face screwing up in confusion. "What – how did you get by without one?"

"Because I bloody well had to, didn't I." Hermione snatched her dead phone from the floor. "I … forget it. Just fucking forget it."

She ran up the stairs, leaving them staring after her. Strangely, she didn't care about them knowing. Not anymore. Dumbledore's words had ripped some veneer off her self-concept. She was sick of all this hiding. Sick of all the dishonesty, all the concealment. Sick of everything.

When Hermione reached the second floor, Riddle was heading into his dorm.

"Stop," she called after him.

He turned, and his eyebrows rose. He surveyed her, the tight line of her mouth, the furious tilt of her brow. "What happened?"

"Shut up." Hermione grabbed the front of his rough black jacket and kissed him deeply, pulling him into her. Her hand fumbled around behind him for the doorknob. When her fingers found the cold metal, she shoved the door open, slamming it behind them. She tossed her bag to the floor, where it landed with a mighty _thunk._

Riddle pressed her against the door, his long lean body caging her in, encasing her in the suffocating scent of smoke. She moved him back, stripped off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt with fumbling fingers. Tore off the smoky smell until only his soft skin was left, the scent of his clean warm body.

"I get the sense you don't want me to ask what you're doing," Riddle said, as she kissed his jaw.

"No, I don't," she said against his skin. "I want you to stop talking. I want you to kiss me." _I want everything to make sense. I want to solve this puzzle. I want to be able to look up the answer in a library book, but I can't, because you can't just look up all your problems and expect there to be a simple solution._

So Riddle tilted her head back up and kissed her, his fingers clasped tight around her waist, thumbs circling the skin possessively. His hip pressed forward into the soft skin of her stomach. Hermione wrapped her arms around his lower back and pulled him flush to her, consciously blocking thought from her mind, needing only the strange reassurance of his presence. His teeth teased her, and when she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, his tongue ran along the inside of her lower lip. She shivered, her nails drumming and scraping against the flexing muscles of his back.

"This isn't a good idea," Riddle murmured into her ear. The husky timbre of his voice made a rush of shivers brush up her back.

"I honestly couldn't care less at the moment."

"Bad day?"

"You could say that," Hermione said, and she had to keep herself from wondering why he'd ask in the first place.

"All right, then." Riddle's arms slid around her waist, and they fell in an ungraceful tangle onto his bed, her chestnut hair frizzing out in static. His long fingers combed through it, pulling her head back slightly, and his lips brushed up her throat, making hot stars erupt in her stomach. She kicked off her shoes and wrapped her legs around his waist, tugging his weight down on top of her. One hand in his dark messy hair, feeling the roots of it, the cool fresh scent of some styling product he probably spent way too much on –

Then he rolled away. Hermione didn't know why he was stopping, but she lay back nonetheless, dizzied. She breathed for a few seconds, her pent-up frustration having been somewhat relieved. "So," she said. "Is this what usually happens?"

"What?"

"Is this what happens with all your conquests? You get them all excited, pretend you're done, wait for them to beg for more?"

Riddle put his hands behind his head and perused her. Something had really gotten deep under the girl's skin. "Not really," he said. "I don't have a pattern; it varies. I detest monotony."

"Oh, of course you do. Tom Riddle, of course." She turned over, and he stared at the back of her head, at the rumpled back of her thin t-shirt.

"You're acting pretty ridiculous. I feel almost obliged to ask what the hell happened."

"Do you have any drugs?" Hermione said, still facing away from him.

"What. Why."

"Because I want to know, that's why."

"In that case, no, I don't."

She flipped back over, her hazel eyes piercing. "Oh, really?"

"Ran out of snow two days ago."

"Cocaine. So that's what you do." She shook her head. "Disgusting."

Riddle's eyes darkened, but Hermione found she wasn't scared, nervous, or the least bit intimidated. Pathetic, his reliance on this. If he were stronger, he wouldn't need it. "You know, I didn't think you were so weak," she said.

All trace of amusement vanished from his expression. "Don't you dare say I'm weak."

"Then prove you're not, Riddle." She propped herself up on her elbow, scrutinizing every inch of his face as if theorizing how best to break it. "Prove you're not. Get clean."

"I don't answer to you."

"Of course not, because it's so easy just to say no, isn't that right? Just to ignore everyone who you don't want to respect."

Riddle rolled out of the bed, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "I don't need to respect many people."

She sat up. "You should respect everyone."

"And if I don't, what then?" He turned, folding his arms across his chest. "You think they'll criticize me for it?"

"I damn well will!"

"You are one of a goddamn kind. I pay my dues. I do what I have to. Everyone else understands how I run."

"No. No one understands the slightest thing about you. No one except me, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

He stared. "How do you know my middle name?"

"You told Zara. You told my friend, remember? When you were yanking her strings shamelessly, and I let you get away with it."

"You're still on about that?" Riddle paced to the window, staring out. "Jesus bloody Christ."

"Give me a cigarette."

"What?"

"Give me one. I've got to see what's so great about these things that you've always got one dangling off your lip."

He flipped her a pack and a lighter. Hermione stuck one in her mouth and lit up.

Tom turned. This, he had to see. In fact, he almost wished he had a camera, so he'd have some blackmail. Not that he needed more, knowing she was on scholarship and all, but still.

She fumbled with the lighter, cursing as she tried to flick it on.

"Let me get that for you," he said. She shot him a death glare and flicked it once more. The flame lit up the end of the cigarette, and Hermione breathed in.

It felt like ash filling her mouth to the brim. It curled up at the back of her throat; she forced her lungs to take it in.

She gagged and choked. Her eyes watered, and for a split second, she thought she might throw up. It felt like something had rooted in the center of her chest, squeezing, squirming, itching.

"Not …" She gasped for a breath and hacked out the rest of her words. "Seeing the appeal."

Riddle plucked the cigarette from her fingers and took a slow, leisurely pull on it. "Takes a while to get used to. And you have to assume you'll enjoy it." He sighed. "On an unrelated note, you really should calm down. You're embarrassing yourself."

"I don't feel embarrassed."

"Well then."

A minute or two of silence. Hermione watched the red rim of the cigarette sizzle up near the filter before Riddle tossed it in the wastepaper basket.

"May I have a mint?" she said.

He pulled a tin of them from his jeans pocket, popped one between his lips, and passed her the rest. She took two.

Hermione lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, massaging her cheeks with the heels of her hands. "Sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"Being so abrupt."

"Come on, now." His voice was quiet. That spark of amusement had returned. "Are you ever not abrupt, Granger?"

"I can have my moments of subtlety." Hermione swished the remains of the mints around her mouth, flushing out the harsh fiery taste of the cigarette. Riddle's weight eased onto the bed next to her, and she moved over to allow him. "I just needed some sort of … dunno. Release," she said.

"We all do. On occasion."

"I suppose." Hermione tilted her head to look at him. "Going to the Den tonight?"

"Are you?"

"No."

He closed his eyes. "Me neither. I don't feel particularly inclined to leave the room."

"Why?"

"I'm … tired." Riddle sighed. He was tired of waiting for his birthday. Tired of bribing Slughorn with gifts to wheedle knowledge of upcoming stock shifts out of him. Tired of taking classes he didn't need to take.

"Burned out?" Hermione said dryly.

"Only if you are."

"Always a competition, Tom."

Riddle yawned. "Have I told you I hate that name?"

Hermione glanced at him. His eyes were still closed. He seemed relaxed, at ease … and that was the closest thing to something personal he'd said in weeks.

_Please let this mean he's starting to trust me._

"Why would you hate your name?"

"Reminds me of the orphanage. Matron Cole, her awful voice saying it. _Tom_." Riddle stretched, his slender body prickling with goosebumps. "It's so … bland. So boring." _So common. _Some part of his mind wondered why he was even saying any of this. It had the tone of idle conversation – the easy languid lightness of idle conversation – but under the surface, this weighed worlds on him. The deep hatred of his beginnings.

Why did it feel easy to speak about it with her?

"Must have been hard," Hermione said. Riddle picked apart her tone, but could detect no pity. No sympathy, even. Just fact. "It must have been wonderful to start at Hogwarts."

"It was." He half-frowned. "I mean, you must know that."

"Why?"

"Because you had to survive that life longer than I did."

"Oh. I … no, I don't think you understand."

He gave a light scoff. "What don't I understand?"

"I loved my childhood. I wouldn't have traded it for all the money in the world."

Riddle's dark eyes cracked open and fixed on the stone ceiling. "You …"

"I am who I am because of what I've gone through. I don't feel any entitlement or resentment because of it." Hermione shrugged. "I was happy." And suddenly, the irritation she'd felt at Dumbledore's lecture melted away. Albus Dumbledore could be wrong, too. Albus Dumbledore could misjudge people, too. Her otherness did not define her, and she didn't let it define others.

"You were … happy?" Riddle said. "In that public school hellhole?"

"Maybe yours was a hellhole. Mine wasn't. What, do you think everyone who doesn't attend Hogwarts is exactly the same?"

He took a pillow and placed it over his face. "Just stop, Granger."

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to complicate things. I know it's a conscious effort. Stop."

A tiny smile pulled at the edge of her lips. "You mean, stop trying to make you see that there are shades of grey, not just black and white."

Mumbling random syllables, he put the pillow over her face instead. Part of his mind considered how easy it would be to suffocate her, right here. Get rid of all this frustration, the frustration he'd willingly invited.

And part of his mind considered how unfathomable it was, that someone could snuff out this star. Just as he'd killed Myrtle - on instinct, no second thought.

Then her voice mumbled, "Get off," and he complied.

Why could she do that? Why could her requests yield results from him?

Hot frustration ran through Riddle as he observed her profile. She was capricious. One moment she was declaring some sort of devotion, the next contradicting him as if it were second nature. Could the girl not make up her damn mind – just decide whether she was his or not?

A lump caught Riddle's throat. _His._

He'd done all this work to win her allegiance. To make her his, so he could reveal the truth and not risk her ruining his operation. Had he succeeded yet? It had taken an almost unfathomable amount of effort to get this far, deceiving Dippet, prodding Slughorn, changing his entire routine. Even passing out those damn Spew badge things. Just to have the seeming _privilege_ of having one Hermione Granger on his side.

It was absurd that she hadn't buckled under the pressure yet.

Riddle gave a slight shake of his head. Idiotic, brilliant girl.

"You do know …" Granger started, her voice quiet.

"Yes?"

The silence.

"We fit," she whispered, and the breath of her words swirled through the air.

He fidgeted.

Cold hands.

"What do you mean?"

"You know we fit." Hermione turned onto her side and hit him with the full power of her gaze.

Tom realized he could stare at those eyes for a very long time and not tire. He realized he could devote almost as much time to thinking of her as thinking of himself. He realized she fascinated him to the point where his irritation transitioned into mere bewilderment, verging on a bizarre entrancement.

When she leaned forward to kiss him, he could do nothing but lie there, frozen, head tilted her way.

Her lips pressed lightly to the side of his.

Though her eyes closed, his stayed open, and he brushed his gaze over her face, which was small and fragile-looking at such close quarters.

He found his fingers trailing down her cheekbone just to feel the texture of her skin. Not to get anywhere. Not to push her further. Just to explore the closeness, the _thereness _of her.

His cold hands flooded with warmth. Too much warmth to bottle. Too much warmth not to let her feel it.

Riddle finally closed his eyes and kissed back. She tasted sweet.

This irresistible force had met its immovable object.

oOo

That night, Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle did not go to dinner. They did not go to their evening class, either, though Practical Applications of Life Skills hardly counted as a class, as Tom pointed out. They did not do their patrols.

They drew the curtains. They dimmed the lights. They debated any and every topic available until one of them ran out of rebuttals, and then they kissed until their lips were flushed with tingling blood. And then they started again.

Hermione felt exhilarated. It was working. She had him.

Tom felt triumphant. It was working. He had her.

And in their obsession with the other's growing trust, neither quite noticed their own walls decaying, slipping, wavering. Neither quite realized what they compromised of themselves.

In the careful dance of the minds, no feet were trodden on. They pushed and pulled and allowed and let things slip. Small, personal things.

Hermione's revelation that she loved to sing quietly to herself, sometimes, when she was working.

Tom's revelation that he considered silence king of all sounds.

Hermione's revelation that she lived in fear of letting down the people she loved.

Tom's revelation that he had never received a birthday present, and given only one in his life.

"Who?" Hermione asked. "Who did you give the gift to?"

"My mother. Left a flower on her grave. It was unmarked – took forever to find."

Hermione's hands found his. She said nothing. She gripped his fingers tight, forcing strength into them, until he squeezed back.

He did not tell her that he was terrified of dying. But she knew anyway.

In all of this there lay an inherent understanding, and a deep fear. They knew that when they drew apart – when she returned to her room, and when they saw each other the next day – something strange and inimitable would hang between them. The nature of it, unknown. The texture of it, unknown. Only the knowledge that it would be there.

They both hoped it would not taste of regret.

Their conversation took its bounds and leaps and twists.

"Paramaribo," said Hermione. "The capital of Suriname is Paramaribo."

"There's no way you know that off the top of your head."

"Oh, really?" She arched an eyebrow. "I know all of them."

"All of them?"

"Every capital."

"Bollocks."

"Try me."

He folded his arms. "Azerbaijan."

"Baku."

"Namibia."

"Windhoek."

"Turkmenistan."

"Ashgabat."

"Jesus, you really do." Riddle ran a hand through his hair. "Why would you memorize that? It's useless. If I need to know a capital, I can just use Google."

"Yes, but you can't say you know the capital of every country in the world."

"So it's a pride thing."

"Of course it's a pride thing." Hermione chuckled. "And an efficiency thing, which is also why I know every element. In order."

"I hesitate to call your bluff."

"Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen …"

He let her get up to Rubidium before letting out a mighty sigh of interruption. "You are, frankly, unbelievable."

"Why, thank you."

"Not a compliment."

"Oh, but it is." Hermione got out of bed, shaking back her mane. "Unbelievable means remarkable." _Unbelievable means irreplaceable._

"Of course you're remarkable," he said crossly.

She gave him a wry look over her shoulder, tracing the lines on his empty calendar. "Why so offended?"

"You really think I'd spend so much time hanging around someone if they weren't remarkable?"

"Frankly, I think you'd do what you needed to do, regardless of the merits of your company." Hermione leaned against the door. "One has to accommodate an awful lot of idiots in everyday life."

He let out half a chuckle. "God knows."

Contented silence.

"Slovakia," Tom mumbled.

"Bratislava."

"Unbelievable."

Hermione let out a tiny laugh. But she found that, once she started, she couldn't stop.

She looked up at the ceiling and laughed. She buried her face in a hand and laughed. She laughed until her stomach hurt, and she didn't even feel awkward.

When she looked over at Tom, she saw him trying to wipe a smile off his face, a smile as genuine as the ache in her side.

Absurdity.

The laughter faded from the air, leaving a wash of gold quiescence in its wake.

After a long minute, "Do you have regrets, Hermione?"

"Not really. You?"

"Several," he said.

"Interesting." She opened the window, letting in a blast of icy November air.

"Interesting?"

"I would have thought you'd think of everything you've done as a tactical step, and accept every step as necessary."

"Everyone missteps."

"You?"

"Not frequently," he said, curling up under the covers.

Hermione stared out at the black glittering sky. "Tom?"

His name in her authoritative, familiar, somehow-tentative voice was a knife sliding between his ribs. An unexpected cut.

He was so close to panicking. He was so close to realizing that he loved the sound of her voice. But he did neither.

He dismissed the stirring beneath the surface and said, "Yes?"

"What star is that?"

She aimed her bare arm out the window, goosebumps rising down her skin.

He got out of bed. The air froze close against his chest.

"Not sure," he said, stopping behind her. "Which one?"

Hermione took slow breaths, not wanting to disturb the quiet. She'd never heard his voice this soft. "There," she murmured. "The bright one."

"No idea. But the light you're seeing is years old," he said. "That star is parsecs away."

"Amazing that light can last that long."

"I was thinking more along the lines of …" Riddle looked away, at the desk, at the bed. Back to his tiny, limited dominion. "Never mind."

Hermione turned and placed one small hand on his chest. Her shrewd eyes fixed on the slight tightness in his lips, the intentional redirection of his gaze from hers. "Along the lines of what?"

"Must I?"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes and pretended someone else was saying the words. "I was thinking it's all … quite humbling."

His eyes stayed shut. The shock of her head laying itself to his chest was unparalleled. She felt carved of ice, frozen solid by the wind from outside. He let his hand rest atop her head. Moved a strand of hair back into place.

He swayed slightly.

Hermione Granger listened to his heartbeat and wondered if the thing could crack and break like a normal person's.

She did not let him see her frown. His arms fell into place around her waist, and her hands rested on his back, and they stood for a time.

At 12:30, they had broken. Tom Riddle took his antiquated laptop from his bottom drawer.

"What's that for?"

"Going to look up that star," he said, his mind light-years away.

She turned away slightly. "Right."

He didn't check to make sure she wasn't looking.

Her eyes fixed on his fingers as they typed in the password.

_31121926._

_3. 1. 1. 2. 1. 9. 2. 6._

_She had him._

A few minutes of clicking. Hermione let the numbers sink into her mind, burrow their way in.

She'd won.

Her heart felt strangely leaden.

"Regulus," he said, voice throaty and contained.

"What?"

"The star. Regulus."

"Oh." She considered for a moment, glanced back out the window. "Beautiful."

He closed the computer and turned those serious eyes to her. "Yes." A flicker across his expression. "Quite beautiful."

x

x

x

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**Hope you liked it! Please do drop me a comment; they make my day.**

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**I can see the end of this one. Several more chapters, methinks, and it'll conclude. Time for the fun part - tying the threads together... *evil laughter***

**Speechwriter**


	13. GrindelWaldenbooks

**Thank you so much for your support!**

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**A couple people asked how long it takes for me to come up with chapter titles. It varies. I don't think it's ever taken more than five minutes or so - my mind is full of vicious punnery just waiting to escape. A couple times, I've had to troll around the internet looking for companies to make puns out of. But yeah.**

**I've been lazy and haven't come up with one for chapter ten. Feel free to submit one, if you want! I'll use it!**

**By the way, in this chapter, remember that I am not using the architecture of the movie-version Hogwarts. Specifically, the girls' bathroom. I always saw it differently in my mind while reading, and though I like the way they did it in the film, I thought I'd bring the design back to the roots of my imagination :)**

**Happy midwinter,**

**Speechwriter**

* * *

Tom Riddle was suspicious.

He could have made paranoia a competitive sport; suspicion was hardly a foreign emotion. But nonetheless. He'd never had to be this suspicious of a girl before, and it irritated him.

He'd always known his followers would be ambitious, because as Den members, they would assume it was their right to be principal characters in the cast of life. But this girl … he wasn't sure if _ambitious_ was the right word to describe her. Driven, yes. Passionate, yes. And she certainly had a dark, retaliatory side, the side that never forgot a thing, the side that wouldn't ever forget how he'd mistreated Zara. The side that snapped at him when he intruded into a sensitive subject.

Volatile, yet strangely reliable. Righteous. Unlike anyone he'd ever chosen to associate with.

Given all that, even he found it remarkable that he was considering letting this person deep into the heart of his operation, deeper than he'd brought anyone before. He was considering showing her the heart of the company, the monster that lurked in the bathroom, the evidence that could – and soon would – bring a major corporation to its knees.

The evidence he'd been using to blackmail that corporation for months now.

The merger between VoldeMart and Pure-Bloody-Genius was on shaky ground as it was. Mulciber's negotiation methods were ineffective at best, offensive to the most naïve of ears at worst. And the CEO of Pure-Bloody-Genius – and most importantly, its bookselling subsidiary, GrindelWaldenbooks, named for the famous scientist – did not have naïve ears. The CEO, known simply as The Elder, certainly didn't appreciate the blackmail, either.

The final meeting to settle the negotiation loomed. It would be over Christmas break, but Tom couldn't do the deal himself, couldn't risk the possibility of unveiling his identity. That was to be a grand reveal, post-graduation. No – he needed Granger to handle the negotiation. Having someone so unabashedly earnest on his side could only help, and to be honest, he wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.

The fact that he trusted her made him suspicious, which, he supposed, sort of defeated the purpose.

But it was always better to be safe than sorry.

He just needed to ensure her loyalty, that was all. Natural. He'd expected it of his other followers. And now that she was seemingly infatuated with him, that should be simple.

In theory.

oOo

"What's that smell?" Mafalda said, wrinkling her nose. "Is that cigarette smoke?"

"Have you been lighting up again, Hermione?" Zara chuckled.

"Oh, you know me," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "No. It's that Tom's room and mine are connected by vents, so his vices can creep over and make all my clothes smell awful. Delightful, as you might imagine."

"I haven't even talked to Tom since we stopped seeing each other," Zara said. "How's he doing?"

"All right, I suppose." Hermione gave a prim shrug. "Just as you might expect."

Zara tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You know, you should really date him, Hermione."

Hermione half-choked on her juice. "Er. What?"

"You would make an awful lot more sense than he and I did. You know, since you're both way too smart, probably both going to run the country someday. All that."

"Not my type." Hermione glanced up from her food, her eyes wandering to Tom's table. He twirled his pencil, saying something to Malfoy. Then, mid-sentence, his eyes met hers. Casual, confident, unreadable as always.

_Not my type,_ her rational brain insisted. _I like my men distinctly less evil._

Hermione looked away.

"Let's be honest here," Mafalda said. "Tom Riddle is everyone's type."

"I beg to differ."

Mafalda shrugged. "Differ away, Hermione. Speaking as one who has well and truly fallen for a boy from Slither's Den … they've got a lot more layers than you might think."

"It's not _layers_ I'm worried about. I'm sure he has plenty of layers." Hermione set down her cutlery. "By the way, I've been thinking of taking up Chinese."

"Of course, change the subject," Zara said, exchanging an exasperated look with Mafalda. "I think you secretly like him. Why not give it a go?"

"Give _what_ a go? There's nothing to _give a go_ when I'm attempting to balance my classes and my friends back in London and my split-up parents and my malnourished social life," Hermione said hotly. "Oh, and don't forget my extracurricular activities."

"Extracurriculars," Zara snorted. "Like you do anything outside curriculum."

Hermione nearly cackled at that. If only Zara knew. "Like I said. Chinese."

"Why would you ever need to know Chinese?" Mafalda said.

Hermione flicked her S.P.E.W. badge. "More effective communication."

"So what, you're going to try and convince all our kitchen workers they either need to demand money or leave, is that right?" Mafalda said. "Anyway, Cygnus has extracurriculars, too. He's a computer genius, spends all his time programming, and he certainly has time for a relationship." She glanced up just as Cygnus sat down next to her. "Speak of the devil. Hey, you."

Cygnus kissed her. "How're you?"

"Grand. Zara and I are trying to convince Hermione here that she needs to date Tom," Mafalda said.

Hermione felt her stomach turn to lead. _Stop talking, Mafalda._

"Er," Black said, eyeing Mafalda with severe alarm. "That's only the single most terrifying thing you've ever suggested."

"Why?" Hermione said, feeling oddly offended.

"Oh, no reason, just that you'd presumably take over the world," Black snorted, flicking back his black hair. "What even possessed you to suggest that, Mafalda?"

Mafalda shrugged. "A dark and evil force. The usual, Cyg."

But now that Mafalda had said it, Hermione wondered if a seed had been planted in Cygnus's mind. He knew the truth about Tom – the only thing he didn't know was why Tom had invited her into their inner circle.

Incidentally, the same thing Hermione was trying to figure out.

She didn't think Tom would write down plans like that in his laptop – _Step One, bring Granger into close acquaintance for the specific purpose of _ - _but surely there was some clue.

_31121926._

The night before seemed like some bizarre dream, disjointed from the real world. In the Great Hall, surrounded by chatter, Hermione could almost pretend it hadn't happened.

She couldn't deny it for too long, though. She'd shared a piece of herself with a boy who had murdered, a boy who had torn away the life of a helpless student. A narcissistic, selfish boy who had the gall to don the face of humility.

While they had spoken, he had shown himself too human for her liking.

And probably too human for his.

When she took her seat next to him in Chemistry, she felt tension stretch itself out between them, an invisible thread sewing their lips shut. For a couple minutes, neither of them said anything. Hermione turned her head away a little, letting her hair block the sight of him from her peripherals. She knew if she looked at him, she would remember the feeling of his arms linked gently around her waist, the feel of his chest against her cheek. And she would go red. And then there were two options: he would laugh at her and show blatant disregard for her feelings, or he would stay quiet and just look at her.

The latter option was infinitely scarier.

She didn't know what she'd do if she saw that soft unfamiliar look in his eyes, the one she'd seen the night before, after they'd kissed goodnight. That small, tentative kiss.

"I, er," Hermione said. She cleared her throat. "Tom?"

"Yes?" he said. His voice made her heart jump.

_Just nerves,_ she told herself. _Stop being nervous._

"We should talk," she said.

"Yes." He sighed. "During lunch? Outside, by the tennis courts?"

"I … yes, right. Good." Hermione spun her pencil and lined her paper up with the edge of the table. "Thank you, by the way. For last night." She felt she owed him the words. _Thank you for giving away the heart of your operation._

A seeming eternity elapsed before his response. "…don't thank me." Riddle looked over at her. She wasn't looking at him, so he studied her tilted profile. Her gaze, fixed on the paper, was intense, electrifying the air.

Those hazel eyes turned just far enough for her to recognize his scrutiny. She bit her upper lip and looked back at the table.

Riddle realized he knew what it meant when she bit her upper lip: She was nervous or uncomfortable. Her lower lip was reserved for when she worried pointlessly about schoolwork. He realized he knew what it meant when her left eye squinted more than her right during a moment of fierce concentration – she was thinking about something she was trying not to think about. He realized he knew exactly when she was about to flick her unmanageable hair away. He could have pinpointed it to the second.

_3… 2… 1. _She flicked her hair away.

Tom didn't know what it meant that he knew these things. To an extent, body language was useful for manipulation purposes, but not to _this_ extent.

It just meant he was spending too much time around her. Of course.

Then her eyes turned to his, and steel bands locked their gazes together.

If this was simply overexposure, why could he not disengage his eyes from hers? Why were they sharing this type of look – this bizarrely intimate, stomach-twisting look – in the middle of a crowded classroom?

He almost got up and walked out. This was another type of warfare entirely, one he'd never had to fight. This girl had it bad for him – he knew it; he could see it in her eyes. But how to counter that? How to combat it? Why couldn't he focus with her right there – why was it so damn difficult to collect the thoughts, the intentions he'd had just that morning?

_Allegiance_, he thought, but when his thoughts shifted to _mine, she's mine, _it wasn't the feeling of obtaining a new follower, a new plaything. It was the feeling of _I must stay close; I must never lose a grip on her._

He looked away first.

They walked to economics together, as usual, but they didn't speak.

Hermione's mouth was parched. She'd never felt such an unbearable grip, like two hands had seized her diaphragm and were squeezing until she could not draw a full breath. The absence of their conversation was a tangible barrier, and yet an unbreakable link – and she knew she wasn't imagining the effect it had on the atmosphere. Students passing in the halls gave them a double take. A couple of people whispered, saw their arms brush and saw them twitch apart as if their skin was blistering from the contact, even through Hermione's fraying sweater, even through Riddle's felt peacoat.

They stopped at the door to economics. Both stood back to let the other through. Furtive eye contact. Looking away at once.

_This is ridiculous_. Hermione hurried in and sat as far from Riddle as humanly possible. She didn't make a peep the entire class, even when Merrythought gave her desperate glances because no one else knew the answers to his questions. Not a word from Hermione Granger, although the subject – banking, a unit they'd just started – fascinated her.

Instead, she plotted.

She would break into the bathroom at the nearest possible opportunity and pray to God the passcode worked on more than Riddle's computer. She would take whatever he'd hidden there and go to Dumbledore. And she had to do it as soon as possible; there was no time to lose.

She would not allow herself the time to realize anything she didn't want to realize.

When the bell rang for lunch, Hermione bolted to the second floor. As she took the elevator down, it registered how odd it was that she'd once been afraid of their high speeds, of being able to look down and see the floor below. She hardly even noticed these days.

She worked with twice as much vigor as usual on the bathroom, wrenching the screws out of the wood where she'd loosely replaced them. Breathless, she swung the door wide, examining the green-blue tile of the simple, square interior.

Now she just had to find this damn hiding place. If she were Tom Riddle, where would she hide a load of rustling papers? Under the floors, behind the walls?

The sunlight through the bathroom windows made Hermione squint. She glanced up at the rippled glass and frowned. What the hell was glittering on the window frame? The way it reflected the sun practically blinded her when she looked directly at it.

Hermione closed and locked the door behind her and clambered up onto the windowsill. As she peered closer at the frame, her eyes widened. It was smothered in silver gel pen. Writing. And at the top, it said,

_myrtle westing-smith was here_

Hermione devoured the tiny, neat handwriting. Myrtle had not been a happy girl – taunted constantly by a popular girl named Olive Hornby, apparently, a 7th year from Raven Club with nothing better to do than bully people. Myrtle, on the other hand, roomed in Huff'n'Puff with no one in either of the rooms next to her, with nothing better to do than get high and lie there for four hours a day.

And, apparently, create a log of her life in a bathroom.

Hermione reached the bottom of the windowsill, where the writing ended, and cursed. Nothing she could use.

But then she looked back and saw the writing on the outside of the nearest bathroom stall, in the slim space between the stall and the tiled wall. Hermione slipped from the sill and slid into the space. The catalogue of words was not as extensive here, the pen practically invisible on the gray stall. She squinted.

_there's a person at the sink what the hell are they doing _was how it ended.

The sinks.

When Hermione stood where Myrtle had stood, writing that graffiti, she could peer down the aisle of stalls unnoticed by anyone on the other side of the bathroom. To be specific, the wall of sinks opposite the window.

She could practically see the scene playing in her mind. A mousy girl, quiet and sullen, peering out. Tom would have had to be rifling through the documents, caught in the act itself – otherwise he could have talked his way out of it.

_What are you doing?_ Myrtle would have demanded. _This is a _girls'_ bathroom._

He would have turned around, a look of sheer paralysis on his face. An unplanned factor.

Hermione stepped out from behind the stall, walking toward the sinks. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.

And here, his hands might have fastened around Myrtle's neck.

Standing in this murderous place, she should have detested him. It should have been so easy to hate him with every fiber of her being. Was this where Myrtle's body had fallen? Had she toppled ungracefully to these tiles, or had Riddle held her as she breathed her last, held her gently around the waist and lowered her to her final position?

But she didn't hate him. She just felt sick with righteous anger against the institution of VoldeMart, this monstrous corporation that could twist him into being such a monster himself.

When he could be so much more.

Truly remarkable, that he hadn't left a single hair, a single fingerprint behind him to provide evidence in a DNA test. Meticulous, as expected. Perfect, as expected.

Hermione gritted her teeth – _stop it; stop thinking about him –_ and examined the row of three porcelain sinks. "Where are you?" she murmured.

Her eyes caught a tiny snake, which had been scratched onto one of the taps. What did that mean? Slither's Den had a sort of snake motif, but why would Riddle adopt it for VoldeMart purposes?

That missing puzzle piece.

She reached out and brushed the engraving lightly with her index finger. Nowhere to enter the passcode. She spoke the numbers quietly to herself as she scrutinized the snake.

A tiny _click_ came from beneath the sink.

Hermione's breath caught. _Voice-activated. _Fists clenched, she crouched down so quickly she nearly whacked her head on the porcelain. A tiny section of a pipe had slid away, revealing a plug. A spot for some sort of USB cable, or a flash drive.

Well, that was it.

"Shit." Hermione sank to the floor. "Shit, _shit._" More she had to bypass. Of course there would be multiple protections on this; of course he'd take this sort of precautionary measure. It was billions of pounds' worth of information, for fuck's sake. She should've known.

Deep breath. At least she was one step closer.

Time to try the computer.

Hermione flicked the pipe back over the plug and peeked through the bathroom keyhole, making sure the caretaker was nowhere in sight. She slunk out, screwed the boards back into place, and hurried for Tom's room.

She checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes left in lunch – she had to hurry. Presumably, his computer would contain mountains of data to sift. But maybe – just maybe – he had digital copies of the documents. She would email them to her mother, and she'd be home free.

Tom's lock took a couple minutes, but eventually, the bolt slid out of place. Hermione shut his door behind her and locked it, drew his laptop from his bottom drawer, and cracked it open.

_31121926._ Her fingers flew over the keys.

His desktop was blank, save for the standard icons: My Computer; Recycle Bin; Google Chrome. Hermione frowned and clicked to his My Documents folder, but she found it empty, too, except for one file, entitled _Havens_. A .txt file, only a couple kilobytes of memory.

Where was the good stuff?

She ran a search. She poked into every nook and cranny of his hard drive.

Nothing besides the _Havens _document.

When she opened it up, she found a long list of codes, but no explanation for what they were or what they did. She took out a notebook and copied them down, but found herself at a loss. Even his web history had been deleted.

Hermione closed everything out, snapped the laptop shut, and returned it to its original position, upside-down in the drawer. And next to the manufacturer's tag on the bottom of the computer, she saw it. A sticker reading _Property of Hogwarts Academy._

It wasn't his computer.

He hadn't saved anything on the damn thing because _it wasn't his._

Why borrow a computer? Why didn't he want something top-of-the-line? Hermione crossed off possibilities: he wouldn't have any of his gang keep another computer with his information on it; he was too secretive, and its location would be inconvenient. He didn't have a mobile, so it couldn't be stored on there, either –

Odd, that he didn't have a mobile or a computer.

Hermione pushed his chair back under his desk and looked out the window. A cloudy, misty sky. It looked like snow.

Had he told her the truth about his financial situation, after all?

_That doesn't matter,_ she told herself, somewhat halfheartedly. But if he wasn't making money from VoldeMart, where the hell was it going?

Of course, he was still seventeen. He'd be under some legal restrictions when it came to money.

This had just raised more _questions._ Hermione stormed out, almost slamming the door behind her. In the hall, she took a shaky breath and a few seconds to collect herself. No; it wasn't fair. Yes; this should have turned up _something_ more worthwhile. But this was also usable information. She just needed to understand what it meant, and she would research until her hands were covered in paper cuts and her eyes were strained, if that was what it took. She would uncover the truth about all this.

She spent the rest of lunch in the library Googling the codes, along with the word _havens._

Nothing turned up.

It only made her more determined.

Meanwhile, Tom Riddle sat next to the tennis courts, stood up by a girl for the first time in his life. Half of him was furious – this didn't bode well along the lines of allegiance.

The other half of him felt otherwise, though he wouldn't admit it to himself, of course.

Maybe that was because he knew he wouldn't be able to explain why he felt so hollow.

oOo

Hermione didn't even realize she'd forgotten to meet him until dinner. She'd spent most of the afternoon dreading the patrol, and when she recalled her promise to meet him by the tennis courts during lunch, that dread melted into a sort of impending doom. What excuse should she make? She could have been speaking to her parents on the school phone, or something…

Yes; that'd do. She needed a new mobile phone, after all, so she would need to discuss it with her parents. Decent excuse.

Now that this list of codes had fallen into her possession, Hermione considered the possibility that she had returned to square one.

She needed to find that USB to plug into Myrtle's bathroom, or to find out what Slughorn had told Riddle, or to find the link between VoldeMart and the Slither's Den snake. Did he trust her enough to answer any of her questions? A dangerous game to play – he might suspect she knew about his leadership role – but Hermione felt confident enough that she could hold her own. She'd kept up this act for long enough, hadn't she?

If she convinced him once and for all that he had her trust…

Yes.

Hermione bit her lip. She knew what to do.

It had to work.

She emerged from her room at ten o'clock. He was already waiting, thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his dark weathered jeans. He nodded a hello, and they started down the hall.

He broke the silence after only a few seconds. "I suppose you're going to apologize for making me wait for you the entirety of lunch."

"Apologize? Why?" Hermione said lightly. "It was intentional."

"Very amusing."

"Fine, fine." She rolled her eyes, her tone mocking. "So sorry your lunch was not graced with my presence."

"I suppose I'll let it pass this time." He glanced down at her. "But repeat incidents won't be taken with such good humor."

She snorted. "The good humor of Tom Riddle. That'll be the day." A brief silence elapsed, and she said, "Should we have that talk, then?"

"Let's," he said. The door to the elevator slid open, and they got in, but neither pressed a button to descend or ascend.

The doors slid shut. They stood in the glass box, leaning against the slim steel rails, neither quite sure what to say now that their banter had worn itself out.

"So, I assume we can both agree it's not a good idea for us to get involved," Riddle said, his voice a soft murmur.

Hermione looked over at him. His words had a surprising impact on her. Sort of like disappointment, only not, because that would have been idiotic.

She studied his handsome face, the careful controlled lines of it. "I get the sense you're omitting something," she said.

He shrugged. "Just because it isn't a good idea, doesn't mean it can't be considered."

"Odd logic there."

Another shrug.

Hermione took a deep breath and steeled herself. "I … need to tell you something."

He glanced over at her. "I need to tell you something, too."

"…shall we say it on three?"

"On three."

Hermione swallowed. "Three… two… one."

His words: "It's not Malfoy. It's me."

Her words: "I think I'm in love with you."

Hermione wasn't sure which of their silences held more shock. The difference was that she was lying, and he was telling the truth, and that struck her to the core. Her hands tightened around the rail so hard she felt like her bones were bruising. Riddle stared at the buttons on the elevator as if considering a quick jab to the _emergency situations_ button.

Had he seriously admitted it? What the hell was he playing at?

With a jolt, she remembered the reaction she should be having. "You … you what?"

"Abraxas Malfoy isn't the CEO of the company," Riddle said. "It's me."

"…you," Hermione repeated. "No. You're –" She looked around, wondering if her eyes looked sufficiently wild. "You can't – what he did to your hand!"

"I arranged that with him."

"But…" She turned away. "Why? Why would you ...?"

"Are you angry?"

"Angry!" Hermione rounded on him, her eyes hard. "Of course I'm bloody angry, what do you think?"

He leaned back against the wall, surveying her calmly. After a second, he said, "I'm surprised you're not attacking me with some sort of blunt instrument, to be honest."

"I would certainly like to. None is available."

Riddle sighed. "Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I only did it to convince you to join me. I knew you thought Mulciber's papers were mine – that I'd orchestrated the fundamental rot that's crippling our long-term credibility. I only became the CEO a year and a half ago; there hasn't been much time to fix anything substantial. But if you found out it was me, you wouldn't have listened to that. You'd have gone to Dumbledore."

It hurt to see him lying so earnestly.

She thought she could tell the difference, now, between the truth and the falsities. Something in his voice right now was too emotional, too outward. When they'd spoken last night, his truest words – the ones he would have had no motive to fabricate – had sounded more shielded than anything else. The real Tom Riddle was a loner, secretive, unused to revealing inner facets of his workings. He was predisposed to internalizing, disregarding his true emotion in favor of pure ambition.

She could put this ability to gauge his truthfulness to good use. She had this flaw in his armor, now, and she would stick a chisel in and chip away.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm just … having a bit of difficulty processing this. You run the company that tore my family apart. You run the company that ruined the life I used to have."

He moved toward her. "I know."

"That's the thing. I know you knew. I told you what's happened to me, and you didn't even care enough to be truthful."

"I'm telling the truth now."

Hermione shook her head, her face creasing in pain. "And why's that, Tom? What are you getting out of telling me here? And how am I supposed to trust anything you say, now?"

He settled against the rail next to her. His proximity made her fidget. "Knowing you," he said, "you're smart enough to withhold a certain measure of trust in the first place."

"People are supposed to trust their friends," she muttered. "I shouldn't have to be careful around you; I shouldn't have to anticipate that you'd lie to me."

"Is that really what you think we are? Friends?" He reached over and tilted her chin gently to make her eyes meet his. "You know better than that. You know this is different."

"Get off." Her words burned.

His hand faltered, and he lowered it smoothly to his side. "I'm telling you now because I need you to do something for the company," he said. _And because I need to test your loyalty._

"I don't owe the company anything," she said.

"Please. For me."

She pursed her lips. "And I certainly don't owe you anything."

"I know you don't." Riddle sighed, but despite his seeming melancholy, he was ecstatic. What she'd said – _I think I'm in love with you –_ had destroyed all her credibility as a threat, as a point of resistance. If she really was in love with him, she would do his bidding. It was just a matter of time. "I'm asking you as a …"

"You said we're not friends."

"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm asking you as a lover."

A long silence.

Hermione punched the button to take them down to Den level, but her stomach had lurched long before they started moving. "We never slept together."

"Back before the death of chivalry, the act of making love was simply any shared tenderness. A linked hand, a simple kiss." He spun his pencil in his fingers. "Last night…"

"We live in a modern time, Tom. Thankfully, it's a time in which a woman is allowed to get involved in business. Regrettably, it's also a time in which deception is simple, rife, and apparently unavoidable." Her words were clipped. "And regardless of our current day and age, I think you'll understand when I say this: When someone lies to you – someone you were willing to trust from the moment you met him because of the misleading image he's so carefully cultivated; someone to whom you've given the benefit of the doubt countless times; someone you thought you could trust – when that person betrays every ounce of effort you ever put into your acquaintanceship, the term 'lover' _is_ never, _was_ never, and _never will be_ appropriate."

They slid to a halt. The doors opened, and Hermione stalked out into the dimly lit halls of the dungeons.

Riddle walked out of the elevator, but didn't follow her down the hall. "Hermione," he said, "tell me what I can do to make it up to you."

"You could abdicate your power to Malfoy," she said, still walking, not even looking at him. Her words echoed off the walls. "You could tell me any more unsavory secrets you have. You could stop messing around with me like I'm something to be taken lightly, to be taken for granted." A slight pause. "Otherwise, you can forget it. I'm done with you. I'm done with this."

Hermione's heart beat hard as she kept walking. There it was – her ultimatum. If he answered one of her questions, she would act on her claim. _I'm in love with you._ She would pretend to follow him to the ends of the earth and back, while really, she would be marking his movements every step of the way. She would slip deeper down the rabbit hole.

But he had to tell her to wait.

She was getting close to the corner. If she turned and left his sight, it was over.

And he knew it, too. Riddle knew it. He just couldn't understand what was happening. Didn't love mean subjugation? Wasn't love just another way of saying you would submit all to the object of your affections? Unless he had some fundamental misconception about the idea, her actions didn't make any sense.

If she got away, his options were limited back to his followers. Black was too smart. Aquilus lacked subtlety. Lerman was too ambitious. Everyone else was hardly an option.

"Wait," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of reluctance. What could he use as leverage? She might not believe him if he said he had nothing else to reveal.

Slughorn.

Hermione halted at the end of the hall and glanced over her shoulder. He walked briskly, the warm incandescent light casting stark shadows over his dark eyes.

"Well?" she said.

He stopped, tugged out a set of keys, and unlocked the nearest classroom. "Let's talk."

Hermione would have been nervous about entering a secluded classroom with a murderer, but she knew he wouldn't kill her. First, he needed something from her, something he certainly wouldn't get by killing her. Second, if she was found killed on patrol, he was the obvious suspect. Third…

No. The notion of trusting him was stupid. She couldn't give him an inch, or she'd fall back into the dream of the night before.

He shut the door behind them and flicked on the light. Hermione took a seat on the teacher's desk.

"Two things," Riddle said quietly. "Firstly, I'm responsible for what happened to Caroline Longbottom."

Hermione let her eyes widen and her jaw go slack. "_You_ did that to her? I thought Malfoy wanted to get back at her father's company for their interference in Malfoy family finances."

"No." Tom sat down at a desk, his expression torn. "Look, Hermione. You're well aware I'm perfectionistic. Everything has to be in place. I was under the impression that Caroline had tied with me for first in the class, and it … angered me." He shook his head. "I never meant for her to be hurt. I meant for someone to frame her for drug usage, lure her into the caretaker's office too high to make a case for herself."

"That's sick." _And it's a lie. You have no problem hurting people._

"I know. I have a natural inclination to get … jealous about the things I care about." Riddle was sitting near the back of the room, but she felt his eyes on her from twenty feet. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and her ears went hot.

"Would you have done that to me if you'd known it was me?" she asked.

"You're still here, aren't you?"

"Clever evasion. Answer the question."

He turned his eyes to his hands, which were folded on the desk. A muscle flexed in his jaw. "I may have. I can't know for sure."

A lie. They both knew he would have.

What Riddle didn't know was if things had changed. If he'd still consider it now, if Hermione weren't a part of his operation.

Logically, it made sense to dispatch her. She was poor; it wouldn't mean anything if she were struck from the ranks of Hogwarts. She made far more trouble than she was worth. She went against the very basis of VoldeMart.

And yet.

"Second thing I should tell you," he said, hurrying along from the question he couldn't answer. "You know my history."

"How do I know if any of that's true? How do I know you weren't just saying it to get me on your side?"

"If you'd like to visit me over Christmas break, I'll be happy to show you my accommodations. You can look it up. London Home for Boys, Adams Street." The words were quiet, subdued. Hermione heard truth ring in them, and she rubbed her temple, trying to ignore the instant mewl of empathy from her heart. She stamped it out with her customary righteous anger.

"All right," she said at last. "Fine. Go on – how is this relevant?"

"Because of my background, I appreciate the importance of money."

"…and…"

"And a certain source has given me the inside information I've needed to make quite a substantial amount from the stock market."

Hermione's hands tightened on her knees. _Slughorn._ Of course – his friends in high places could assist Tom in knowing which way the market headed. But economics had taught her that personal stocks were pocket change compared to the long-term impact of knowing the market on a deep, intimate level. If Riddle had enough information on the market to know when to purchase other companies, he could make a killing off mergers and deals.

"So," he said, "that's it."

"Tom," she sighed, slipping from the teacher's desk. "You realize I could get you arrested this instant."

"I do."

"So why did you tell me any of that?"

He met her eyes. _I gambled on your trust. _"I need you on my side."

She walked slowly down the row of desks and stopped before his seat. His legs were stretched out as usual, his body slumped in the desk as if it were a throne.

Hermione folded her arms. "I _am_ on your side," she said. "God knows I can't help it, and it's so bloody irritating." She shook her head and exhaled slowly. "I don't know. Maybe I won't ever know what your side is, but I'm on it, Riddle. Whatever you do, I can't help hoping you get what you want."

As big a lie as she'd ever told. She hated everything Tom Riddle stood for, everything he strove for.

It was when it came to the boy himself that she couldn't be sure of her sentiments.

A smirk pushed his eyes into the realms of dark overconfidence. He stood, his body suddenly so close she couldn't breathe. "I'm glad," he said. "Because I want _you_."

She took a deep, shaky breath and met his eyes. They were darkened by something covetous. So dark they seemed to drink in the light.

Riddle counted the seconds ticking by to her response. The anticipation gripped him around the throat.

"I've wanted you from the moment you walked into that compartment on the Hogwarts Express," she said, hoping she sounded genuine. "But I know this is an awful idea. I know I shouldn't be with you, if we're working together."

"Yes. That's very true. We should probably –"

"No. I know it's a bad idea, but I've ceased to care. Frankly, I'm done waiting." Hermione's eyes glittered with defiance. "Be with me, Tom."

Tom Riddle had been with girls who were seductive. He'd been with girls who were confident, stunning, and well-aware of their charms.

But he had never met a girl so straightforward, so brilliant, and as such, so utterly irresistible.

He put a hand on her waist and leaned in, letting his lips brush the soft side of her ear. She smelled like something wild and untamable, something clean, electric, driven. She smelled like vigor and heartbeats and rush. And he _felt _it, too, tingling under the surface of his skin.

"The first rule of business," he whispered into her ear: "If you know what you want … take it."

And as he leaned back, Hermione slipped her fingers into his. A shock barreled up his arm.

She stood on tiptoe, tilted her head, and kissed him so softly he could have sworn her lips were sewn from breezes. He pressed back the tiniest amount, tasted her melting into him.

"Be my boyfriend?" she said, with the beginnings of a cheeky smile.

Some instinct told him to snap, _I'm not anyone's anything. I am my own._

But another instinct, tiny as it was, told him to say, _You know I couldn't be anyone else's._

"I suppose," he murmured onto her lips. His eyes closed, and he kissed her forehead gently.

Hermione's hand rested on his chest. Under her fingertips, she could feel his heart beating hard and fast, and it startled her.

"Your heartbeat," she whispered.

He didn't know what to say. He knew his heart was pounding, because it hurt. Like it was forcing acid into his bloodstream, poison.

With those two words, she had knocked him speechless, crippled his ability to make any sort of coherent response. How could he answer that? God knew he didn't understand it any more than she did.

Instead, he let silence reign.

But when Hermione kissed him again, he could have sworn he heard his heart murmuring its response. _I want you. I own you. I love you when you're mine_.

x

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* * *

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**Love,**

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	14. Dark Marks and Spencer

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* * *

Hermione hurried into Linguistics and set her bulging bag on her desk, glancing around as the rest of the class filed in. Tom wasn't there yet.

She felt a bit nervous. Having wiled her way into a relationship with the most dangerous person she'd ever met, she feared for her safety, and to a lesser extent, her sanity.

How would he act, now that they were _dating_? Sometimes people got … odd, when they were in relationships. Back home, Luna had dated a boy called Roger Davies. He'd seemed nice enough beforehand, but for some reason, after he and Luna got together, each of his flaws seemed to get more pronounced each day. He grew whiny and clingy and altogether unattractive, until Luna decided it wasn't worth the effort.

As for Tom… Hermione didn't even want to consider what would happen if _his_ flaws were exacerbated. He'd probably end up slaughtering Albus Dumbledore or tearing his soul in half or something.

In fact, the thoughts so unsettled her that Riddle's actual change seemed like quite the favorable alternative.

He dumped his bag next to the desk across from her, pulled Hermione over by the shoulder, and kissed her deeply.

Her brain shut off and filled with a dull roar. When they broke apart, the room was dead silent. The other twenty-four students were all staring.

"Morning," Riddle said, with a wicked smirk. Was he _trying_ to make her uncomfortable? Was this some sort of challenge?

Hermione wanted to slap the blush off her own cheeks. Instead, she mustered her courage, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him back. "Morning," she said. "You seem unusually chipper."

He gave a careless shrug. With that, they sat down and took out their homework as if nothing had happened. It was a few seconds before the room filled with talking again.

An odd amusement burgeoned in Hermione's chest. It almost felt as if she and Riddle were sharing a private joke, springing this on the general Hogwarts populace with zero warning. Hermione caught sight of several people texting. The entire school would know by the end of the day.

She didn't quite know how to feel about that.

Riddle, on the other hand, felt immensely satisfied with himself. Of course, he could probably kiss any other girl any time he wanted, but this was something he'd had to work for. The ability to kiss Hermione Granger whenever and however he wished was no simple feat, and exerting that supremacy in the middle of class, where everyone could see the feat he'd accomplished, just made the victory all the sweeter.

Their Linguistics professor hadn't arrived yet. Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder, and she glanced behind her. Josiah Zabini was crouched in the next aisle. "What the bloody hell?" she said. "You and Riddle? And you didn't tell me and Iris?"

"Er, I thought we still weren't talking," Hermione said owlishly.

"Not when you have _boy issues,_ you idiot." Josiah grinned. "We'll speak about this later. You have to tell me everything."

"Iris won't be mad, will she?"

"She's dating Nick Abbott now, so she couldn't care less. She was only ever with Riddle for the sex anyway –" Josiah glanced around, her voice dropping – "though she did have quite the thing for him back in 5th year. But that's done with now."

"Right." Hermione glanced over at Riddle, who seemed to be reading his notes. Which probably meant he was listening to every word they were saying. "Well, I …" Hermione cleared her throat. "We'll see. I'm happy, I really am."

Josiah smiled. "Oh my God, I know, right? Nothing better than not being single anymore."

The door opened, and Professor Trelawney swept in. Josiah scurried back to her seat.

Hermione sighed. The subject of Linguistics had so much potential, but the way Professor Trelawney taught made Hermione want to stab her own eyes out with a blunt pencil.

"Prepare your Inner Tongue," Professor Trelawney moaned, every syllable distended and theatrical. "Today, again, we journey to a world of speech beyond the mundane, where morphemes and phonemes are documented with their due respect…"

Hermione let out an audible, disgusted sigh. Tom shot her an amused glance. She shrugged, refusing to feel bad about her blatant disrespect. How could she take any teacher seriously when they behaved like some sort of circus fortune-teller? Honestly.

A fortune-teller might have been more use than Trelawney. Maybe then Hermione could coerce her into seeing how this would all turn out.

Zara and Mafalda practically killed Hermione at lunch with their onslaught.

"Didn't say a damn word –"

"I can't believe you sat through breakfast and didn't tell –"

"I take all the credit, let the record show that I suggested you date him first –"

"You need to double-date with me and Cyg! –"

Hermione cleared her throat and glared at her friends. They fell into a reluctant silence. "Thank you for your enthusiasm," Hermione said sternly, "but I would rather not die, so could you please let go of my arms?"

They loosened their stranglehold on her biceps.

"Thank you." Hermione massaged the life back into her upper arms. "Goodness, you two have the gripping power of a giant squid."

"I actually am a giant squid," Mafalda said. "Swim team. You know."

Hermione chuckled, and they sat at the table with a collective exhale.

"It really is obnoxious that you didn't say anything," Zara muttered. "Honestly, Hermione."

"Sorry, sorry." Hermione rubbed her forehead. "I know, I should have. I just… it's silly, but I feel sort of… I don't know. Embarrassed? He's like a public figure or something, and it's just not sensible to go flaunting that sort of information about when –"

Mafalda let out a loud scoff. "You're also a public figure, Head Girl. What, do you think Hogwarts hasn't noticed your brilliance?"

"Oh, don't be silly. I …" Hermione scowled and took a bite of her eggs. "I just work hard."

Zara snorted, but didn't push the issue.

"Hey, Hermione," Mafalda said, "did you do Merrythought's essay yet?"

"No. I've started, but I'm actually missing some of the notes, which is frustrating. I was just … I felt really off yesterday; my notes on the first module aren't as comprehensive as I'd like."

"Oh. I can lend you mine if you'd like," Mafalda said, "though I'm not promising anything. And my handwriting's shit."

Hermione sighed. "Well, that's all right. I just need the information. I think I stopped copying right around the offshore accounts section."

Mafalda tugged out her binder and rooted around through stacks of notes. "Compound interest… foreign-owned banking corporations… ah, here we go. Offshore accounts and tax havens."

Something clicked together in her mind. Hermione jolted forward in her seat and choked, sending herself into a coughing fit. Zara pounded her on the back, but Hermione coughed and coughed until she was red in the face. _Havens. Tax havens. The codes._ Had she found access numbers and information for some sort of offshore hoard? There were seven codes, which meant Riddle would have seven lifelines, seven accounts stocked with cash -

"I have to go to the library," she said, almost dreamily. Then she snatched up her bag and hurried out of the Great Hall. Did the library have a section on finance? It had to, surely.

_Banks and finance. Banks and finance. Banks and_ –

Hermione stopped in her tracks. "Oh! Tom!"

The librarian hushed her.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered.

Tom stood in the middle of the fiction section, thumbing through the titles.

"You read _fiction_?" Hermione said, approaching him.

"You don't?"

"Of course not. How impractical."

Riddle snapped the book shut and replaced it. "How elitist of you."

"We attend Hogwarts Academy, and you're _surprised_ to encounter elitism?"

He flicked her S.P.E.W. pin, a lazy smile playing over his lips. "Constantly. What are you doing in here, anyway?"

"Thought I might find you in here," she lied.

"Well, as romantic as the location might be," Riddle said, looking around at the stacks of books, "I daresay Madam Pince wouldn't fancy us hanging around talking." He had a point – the woman's death stare threatened to ignite the withered pages surrounding them. "Would you like to take a walk?" he suggested. "It's lovely out."

Hermione's trying-very-hard-to-be-winsome smile faltered. "But we have Latin in fifteen minutes."

"Oh, come off it, you're fluent in Latin. All we're doing today is reviewing for the midterms, and you'll get A-stars on everything anyway." Riddle slung an arm around her shoulders and steered her out the door, nodding to Madam Pince, who gave him a rare smile.

"Why does every teacher love you?"

"Because I'm perfect."

Hermione snorted, not wanting to admit to herself that she enjoyed the weight of his arm across her shoulders. For a second, she wondered if she was completely off the mark with the _havens _guess. Her intuition usually turned out to be correct, but she could be mistaken. Had Slughorn taught Riddle this, as well as stock manipulation? If not, how had he discovered how to do it without being caught? How would Slughorn know how to do that sort of thing, anyway?

If she asked the professor and got a reaction, she would know for sure it was true … but would Slughorn tell Riddle she knew? It would ruin everything.

The silence as they headed out to the grounds was bizarrely content, and Hermione found herself hoping it wouldn't be ruined. Not by Slughorn. Not by the secrets they were keeping. And not by what she was going to do to him.

"So, Hermione, I have a proposition."

"Go ahead."

Their steps echoed across the courtyard off the stone walls, and Riddle flexed his fingers, popping a knuckle. "There's a meeting I'd like you to attend in my stead."

"A … meeting?"

"It would be over Christmas break. A negotiation for a merger."

"With which company?"

Riddle looked down at her, his eyes bright with paranoia. She could only imagine how hard it was for him to say these words and make them sound natural, like it was information he'd share with anyone.

"Pure-Bloody-Genius," he said.

Hermione couldn't stop her eyes from widening. That conglomerate handled defense and nuclear research. It handled security, surveillance, and prison construction. And most importantly, it handled bookstores. Why on earth was VoldeMart supposed to absorb Pure-Bloody-Genius in its entirety, when the other company was thriving? She'd looked over the numbers recently – on Riddle's request, in fact, to see how competitors in the book-selling arena were doing. Pure-Bloody-Genius had no reason to want to merge.

"What's in it for them?" she said, when they were halfway to the lake, no one around them but the swirl of the bitter wind.

"That's the thing." Riddle let his arm drop to her waist, and he pulled her a little closer. "This information doesn't leave us, all right? You've got to promise me, Hermione."

"Of course," she said, with as much gentle consternation as she could muster. "Course, Tom."

He looked down at her, analyzing every inch of her expression. She kept herself frozen in a look of mild concern, tempered by curiosity. Hopefully, it'd be realistic enough to live up to his standards of deception. If there was ever one lie that needed telling…

"Right," he said, and Hermione felt like punching the air. She felt like crowing her victory.

She also felt sort of guilty. Not for what would happen to the company – goodness, she couldn't wait to see the back of VoldeMart as it sunk into the ocean of failed, corrupt operations. But she had to bite back guilt when she looked into the dark eyes of the boy before her, the boy with only as many years under his belt as she had, the boy who – though he would have loved so much to pretend otherwise – had so much to learn, so far to go.

When she thought about that, it hurt.

So she stopped thinking and listened to his words.

"I have information," he said.

"What sort of –"

He put a finger on her lips. She scowled and swatted him away.

"Just… listen, would you?" he sighed. "All right. It's a little… it's just so strange, you might not believe me."

They passed the lake. Riddle flicked his lighter a few times, his fingers winding into his messy hair. "I was doing some research on my family's background, and I found out that Elder and I are related. Which is, of course, how I started looking around for information on him. But that's not … I also discovered that he's …"

"Spit it out."

Tom gave her a dark look. "Alright. The man fancies himself a necromancer."

Hermione stared for a second, and then let out a laugh. "He … what? That doesn't … you're joking."

"No, I'm actually not. You'd think, but …" Riddle exhaled slowly. "The man meets with a group of self-proclaimed 'wizards' every other Saturday. They wear _robes_ and have _wands _and hold séances and go around digging up graves. I've documented it all very carefully, and I have footage – photos, video – to back it all up. Of course, Pure-Bloody-Genius is outwardly a Christian organization, so you can only imagine what would happen if this were to get out."

"And you've been blackmailing him with all this. You've been blackmailing Elder."

"Well, of course." Riddle gave her a _what, are you stupid? _glance. "Wouldn't you? This is a fantastic opportunity."

They came to a stop at the edge of the forest. Hermione shook her head. "Why would he choose to promote himself as a Christian when it's such a flagrant lie? Why wouldn't he just stay unaffiliated with any religion at all? In fact, there are plenty of odd CEOs in the world – why should he have to conceal his odd habits?"

"Oh, come now, Hermione." Riddle's lip curled. "You and I both know this is more than an 'odd habit'. Image is everything, and something like _that_ … well."

Hermione's lips thinned, and she met his gaze with steel. "I don't like this. I don't like you sneaking around, digging up information on a man who just wants to live his life how he pleases."

"_Live his life how he pleases_? He's a freak, Hermione. He's not sane. He believes in _magic._"

"Oh, your levels of tolerance are astounding. Magic is just science we don't understand yet."

Riddle rolled his eyes. "Isn't that from some film about superheroes? Hardly a reliable source to be drawing your quotations –"

"And we still haven't spoken about that packet," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You know, the one that clearly shows you to be in possession of large amounts of money that by all rights aren't yours."

"Right, well." A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he leaned against a tree, folding his arms. "You really are most uncooperative."

"The fact that I haven't turned you in yet –"

"Is probably related to the fact that you have no concrete evidence," Riddle finished.

"Oh, come off it." She frowned. "That's not the only reason. Don't you trust me at all?"

She expected some snarky response, but instead, his eyes flickered to the frosted forest floor, and he gave a halfhearted shrug.

Hermione's brow creased. With some hesitancy, she approached him and rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn't shrug her off, to her surprise. "Well?" she said. "Don't… don't you?"

Riddle still didn't meet her eyes. "I'm not accustomed to doing that," he said tightly.

"Trusting people?"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

"Why should I?" His voice carried no vehemence, which surprised Hermione. Just emptiness, with an undercurrent of bitterness. Then he seemed to realize what he was saying, and he looked back at her, blinking rapidly. "Never mind that. Anyway, if –"

"No, I do mind," she said firmly. "What's wrong with trusting people?"

"No one ever lives up to my standards."

_Ouch._

Her hand fell from his shoulder, and she took a step back, hurt mixing with disgust in her expression. "So you don't think anyone's good enough for you?"

He met her angry gaze without emotion. "Those people are exceedingly rare, and they unnerve me a great deal to the point where I can't trust them, either, because I dislike what they're capable of."

"Well, which category do I fall into?" Hermione said, her hands balled into fists in her pockets. The idea of Riddle thinking she was inferior made her want to slap him, but the idea that he was _scared_ of her, in his own odd way, made her even angrier. And she didn't know why. Why should she care about his opinion of her, really?

Because … because a negative and-slash-or suspicious perspective would provide an obstacle to the mission at hand, obviously. Right. Hermione let out a slow breath, glad to have come up with some sort of answer to that uncomfortable question.

"You're in the latter category, obviously," Riddle said, his voice still cool and detached.

Rage smoldered in her stomach. Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, trying to conjure an appropriate reaction. "Tom, this is … I thought we were…"

"What exactly did you think?"

She turned away and said something more truthful than she'd realized before it came out of her mouth. "We're together, but if you can't trust me, you can't really feel anything for me."

Her words rang in the cold air. A second passed before he gripped her elbow. "That's not true. How could you – that's just irrational. Think logically, Hermione."

"Could you _not _think logically for once?" she snapped, jerking her arm out of his grip and rounding on him. "For Christ's sake, you act as if you're removed from your own life, like you're just watching it happen from the outside and moving pieces into place. Why can't you let yourself let go of your control obsession for once, just not worry about consequences and motives and the science of it all? Not everything is quantifiable and analytical. Sometimes things don't make sense and you can't try and say they do."

A pause. Riddle's eyes softened. "Like us," he said. "You hate the company. But I love it. And I love it more for bringing you here."

"Oh, stop. Stop it. Don't talk to me like you need to charm your way into my good graces. Don't speak to me like I'm someone you're aiming to depose from their common sense. Do you really not understand, Tom? I know all about you, from your coercive tactics to your unsavory sordid actions to what you pretend to be. I know your flaws – you don't have to try and cover them up. I know them, and I know you, and I'm _still not going anywhere_."

Riddle had never heard anything quite like that before.

An odd sort of relief rang in him.

He had to admit the truth in her conclusions. He lived his life in a sort of fear that his true self would escape and ruin all his plans. The only thing that kept him from that fear was the comforting shield of arrogance, the one he never let down. He knew this, understood this, and used it to his advantage.

But what to do when his unsavory nature was out in the open?

And what to do when she still wasn't afraid of him? When she didn't hate him? When she didn't care?

Hermione took his hand, and he continued to study her, wondering. Was there a threshold he could cross? If she found out about Myrtle, or about his offshore accounts, or about how he'd ruined his own father – _then_ would she hate him?

He didn't want to find out, that was for certain, for reasons twofold. Firstly, the loss of her trust would be a blow to his plans. And secondly…

Secondly, he simply didn't want her to hate him.

He cared about what she thought of him, just _because._

_What in hell's name…?_

He didn't respond when she placed a light kiss on his lips.

"You're cold," he murmured.

"A bit, yes."

He slipped his jacket around her shoulders. "Shall we go inside?"

"I think we should talk about this a little more."

"I detest these types of touchy-feely discussions."

"Hardly shocking." She cocked an eyebrow. "I'd like to anyway."

Riddle tilted his head and took his pencil from behind his ear. "Not very good at compromise, are you?"

"On the contrary. I'm simply aware there's no way to compromise with you. It's all give or all take, and in this instance, I'd like to take."

"Let's try some negotiation."

"I'm listening."

"If we have this discussion…" Riddle tucked her hair behind her ear and traced the line of her jaw with one long finger. "You'll do the meeting for me. You'll go negotiate the merger with Elder."

His touch raised chills on her skin, but his words drew warmth to her chest. Unbeknownst to him, the proposition was perfect for her purposes. When she said yes, she would cement his concept of her as a true devotee, and furthermore, she'd grow to understand his purposes. She hesitated before answering anyway, though, to keep up appearance.

"Fine," she said.

"Excellent." He offered her his arm. "Let's take a walk."

Hermione's lips quirked to the side. "How gentlemanly of you."

They strolled into the forest.

"So," Hermione said, "purely in hypothesis, what could I do to make you trust me?"

"Frankly, there's very little you can do. It all depends on how I perceive you."

"Great. Brilliant. And how _do_ you perceive me?"

"You're formidable," he said.

Hermione glanced up at him, oddly satisfied by the answer. "I … thank you."

He shrugged. "It's true. Finding someone on intellectual par with you, besides myself, would be a stretch."

"All right. May I ask you how I'm supposed to trust you?" Hermione said.

"You shouldn't." One corner of his mouth lifted. "You already know that. In fact, I doubt very much that you trust me, after having discovered that I lied about my position."

"And if I said I did?"

"I would remind you that you're a terrible liar."

Hermione let out a chuckle. It echoed against the frozen trees. "Well, all right. I am still a little shaken, I'll admit." She moved closer to him. "Aren't you cold?"

Riddle shrugged. He only wore a t-shirt featuring some obscure band over a long-sleeved shirt; she didn't see how he wasn't dying. "I don't really get cold," he said.

"Lucky. My hands are always like ice."

"I know." He twined his fingers with hers, and for a moment, there was silence.

"You … you _are_ going to fix the things in that packet, aren't you?" Hermione said tentatively. He would lie and say he would, of course. She knew that. But she also knew he would be suspicious if she dropped the issue.

"Like I said last night. A lot of these issues are deep-seated. I'd have to get signatures from half the upper tier of management to change them, and I'd have to work access codes out of Abraxas's father, which would be close to impossible. Trying to wring money out of a Malfoy is like trying to stay awake in Professor Binns' class, and I really don't have time."

A more solid set of excuses than she'd anticipated. And he didn't make any promises, which surprised her. "Later, then?"

"Fine, fine. We'll go over it after Christmas break, yeah?"

"We? I'll be involved in this process?"

"You do realize you're a de facto board member, don't you?"

Hermione frowned. "… interesting."

What if he actually _were_ to change the company's practices? Stop the outsourcing, stop the child labor, stop the low quality…?

She nearly slapped herself. Those were treacherous thoughts. She couldn't let him pollute her mind with what he _could_ do – she had to look at his track record, remind herself of what he _had_ done. Killed a girl. Sequestered probably millions offshore. Lied to her every step of the way.

No false promises would weaken her resolve.

They stopped in a clearing and sat on a fallen log.

"Why do you shut everyone out?" Hermione asked.

"How so?"

She shrugged. "One way or another, you've got a barrier between you and the rest of the world. Most of the school doesn't really know a thing about you. And the few people who know the truth have a power dynamic separation." Hermione huddled up under his warm jacket. "You must get awfully lonely."

Riddle's mind raced for a change of subject, a way to put the ball back in her court. He didn't want to talk about himself. "Why do you even care?" he said, before realizing that the question was a terrible idea.

Hermione stared at him. Riddle clasped his hands in his lap, dreading her response.

"Are you asking me why I care about you?" she said.

Riddle was about to say no, but then he stopped. Why _did_ she care about him? Before she'd known the truth, it had been easy to apply the same reasons to her as the rest of the student body had to fancy him. He was brilliant, attractive, confident, and of course, _such_ a good person.

But now she had been disillusioned. And with those obnoxious _morals_ she had...

Why was she still hanging around?

How could she claim to be in love with him when she knew so much about him? For someone ambitious, they would be drawn to his power. But Hermione ... it didn't make sense. It was utterly nonsensical.

"Yes," he said. "I'm asking that."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't … it's not something I can explain, Tom. I mean, if you got hurt, I'd be scared; I'd be angry. If you were happy, I'd be happy too. It's just … just the way things are."

"So you have no rational explanation," Riddle said.

"No, I don't. I mean, if one of these trees suddenly fell on me, what would you do?"

Riddle's throat tightened, and his impassive features flickered in indecision. If Hermione Granger were hurt, what would he do? "I'd bring you back to the castle," he said. "To the infirmary. Naturally."

The answer was obligatory – he knew what he was _supposed_ to say, and he said it – but it was also true.

She sighed. "How about if someone hurt me?"

"Then I would hurt them a thousand times worse," Riddle said, and this time there was no hesitation. An image had flashed across his mind of some faceless person hurting the girl before him, and without even a second thought, Riddle knew what he would do. He would yank the switchblade from his pocket and slash the person across the chest. He would keep her safe.

"I … all right, then," Hermione said. "Then you care about me, like I care about you. Is it really that hard to grasp?"

The gentle mocking tone she used should have inflamed him with anger, but instead, he let out a light "huh," feeling almost amused. It really wasn't that complicated. This _caring_ thing was nothing more than a protective instinct, after all that.

It was odd, though. If she were to be hurt, the first thing on his mind would not be _I am losing a valuable piece of my operation._ It would be _help her._

_Help Hermione._

"You know," she chuckled. "I feel like we should have had this discussion _before_ we got into a relationship."

"Yes. One would think."

"I'm glad we had it, in any case." Hermione felt a speck of cold on her forehead, and she glanced up at the sky. Snowflakes trickled down from the steely sky toward them. "Look," she whispered. "It's snowing."

"Yes."

"If you look into the sky, it's like falling upwards."

His lips were on hers before she realized he'd moved closer. And from the swoop of her stomach, she really could be falling up. Or any which way, really. Drifting into the sky with no directional pull, with no gravitational tug in any direction. Just his touch, anchoring them together, dizzying her.

She tilted her head to accommodate him, the soft but insistent press of him. One of his hands slipped around her waist, slid up her back under her shirt. His fingers blazed with heat, even in the bite of the weather.

His other hand slipped under her knees, and with a single strain of his muscles, he lifted her into his lap, huddled her up against his hard chest. Hermione rested a hand lightly on the back of his neck, reining him in. He arched against her, and she kissed him more insistently, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Something hot lit in her stomach, and as his hand traced the line of her bra strap, she let out a tiny murmur against his lips.

He shivered.

Her eyes cracked open, fixed on the snowflakes lacing his dark hair. "You'll freeze," she whispered. "Let's go back."

"All right."

He lifted her in his arms and carried her all the way up the grounds. Her breath was hot at the junction between his jaw and his throat. He glanced into her sharp hazel eyes every few seconds, as if to reassure himself she was still there, as if to reassure himself she wouldn't abandon him, as by all rights, she should have already.

oOo

Three days passed. Hermione sank into a frenzy of studying, much to Tom's amusement. They would sit in his room, she at the desk, he in the bed, she with books stacked higher than eye level, he with a couple pages of notes. Every so often, he would turn the page, yawn, and say, "How do you spend so _long_ doing this?"

"Because unlike you, I don't have a photographic memory," she would snap.

"It's not photographic. It's just better than yours."

And then she would give him a death glare over her shoulder, and he would smirk. "Maybe," he would say, "if you didn't clutter up your brain with information like every capital in the world, there'd be more room."

"I may actually slaughter you."

"That'll be the day."

Meanwhile, Hermione had to fret about various other topics. Her petition to help the kitchen workers had been completely ignored by Dippet, so she'd filed it in Dumbledore's message pile instead, and was still waiting for a response. She hadn't dared bring up the tax havens issue with Slughorn, for fear that he would relay the conversation back to Riddle. And despite scouring Riddle's room four times, she hadn't found the USB for the girls' restroom.

Hermione was starting to think she needed another brain to collaborate with her. She'd gone over the possibilities so many times she felt like she'd lost all sense of perspective on the issues. She still didn't have a replacement mobile, so Harry and Ron were out of the question – she couldn't confine these discussions to email. Mafalda and Zara would be horrified if they learned about Riddle's true nature, and probably the same for Iris and Josiah. But who else was there?

The answer sat down at dinner the next day and said, "Why don't we have a class for Computer Science?"

"Come off it," Mafalda snorted. "You could teach a class on computers, you don't need to take one."

"Oh, I know." Cygnus Black shook back his dark hair and gave Mafalda a cocky grin. "That would be the point."

"Cygnus," Hermione said thoughtfully.

He glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

"I've wanted to learn a bit of programming for a while now. Do you think you could help me out with something?"

Cygnus gave a noncommittal shrug. Hermione thought she saw a wary gleam in his eye. Would he trust her? Everyone in the VoldeMart gang surely thought she was Riddle's chief henchperson, and they were all as much terrified of him as loyal to him.

"What sort of thing is it?" he said.

"Oh, just some CSS code, or a little HTML. I've been thinking of starting a study log, and all the best hosts are blog sites, but their formatting is so frustratingly cluttered, I can't keep anything straight." Hermione took a bite of pie. "I would really appreciate it."

"Yeah, sure. Me and Faldy have a date tomorrow –" Mafalda punched him – "so tonight sometime?"

"Fantastic," Hermione said. "Hope you don't mind me stealing him, Mafalda."

"Heh, don't worry about it," she said. "I get him to fix my computer every other week. Quite useful, this one."

Cygnus grinned. "I try, I try."

"Shall I just meet you in the library after this?" Hermione said.

"Sure."

After dinner ended, Hermione hurried up to her room, grabbed the codes from where she'd taped them inside the frame of her desk, and shoved them into her pocket. As she emerged into the hall, she bumped into Tom.

"Where are you off to?" he said.

She fumbled for a second. "Library. I need to look up some export records from 1974."

"Come to my room later?"

"Of course." She kissed him quickly and hurried off, hoping he hadn't caught her avoiding his eye.

Cygnus was sitting at a computer when she walked in, entering something into the Command Prompt box. As she'd expected of a Tuesday evening, the library was deserted except for them. Madam Pince had already gone into her office-slash-bedroom, locked herself away for the night.

"Cygnus," Hermione said.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Sit down, then."

She took a seat next to him. "All right. I assume you guessed I don't actually need a study log."

"No, I figured," he sighed. "Does Riddle want me to do something? He could have just asked me directly."

Hermione bit her lip. She'd always thought Cygnus had an odd air about him. Whenever the group met, he never seemed subordinate, like Riddle's other followers. He dated Mafalda. He didn't seem as ambitious as Malfoy, or Lestrange, or Carrow, or any of the others. Still – he was a Black. Could she trust him not to report to Riddle?

"I need your help," she said.

Black's eyes narrowed. "What sort of help?"

She pulled the list of codes from her pocket and handed them to him. "Does this mean anything to you?"

He flipped open the paper and scanned the seven codes. "Not a thing."

"All right." Hermione's voice dropped. "I'm about to tell you something very important, and you have to swear not to say anything to anyone."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll tell Mafalda everything," Hermione said. Cygnus's face went dark, and she almost regretted the threat, but she held her ground. "I'm serious. You mustn't repeat a word of this conversation to anyone. Not Malfoy. Not Lestrange. Not a single soul. Not even Tom."

His anger faded into a sort of curiosity. "What is it?"

"Well, I think… I think these are codes for VoldeMart's seven tax havens. Offshore accounts, where Tom's been funneling illegal funds."

Cygnus stared at her, his sharp features frozen in shock. "Wait. You're … you're snooping around behind Riddle's back?"

"Not a word!" she hissed. "Not a single word to _anyone_, Black. Or I will _ruin you_."

He shook his head slowly. "Don't worry. I'm just … shocked you … I thought you were _his._"

A tiny smile drew the corner of Hermione's lip, and she shook back her hair. "I'm not anyone's."

"Right, well. I …" Black ran a hand through his hair. "All right. So he's got seven accounts. What do you want to do about it?"

"I can get you into Riddle's computer. I need you to find a way to get into these accounts so we can empty them. We need locations and the companies handling them."

Black sat back in his chair, folding the codes back up. "Why are you even asking me, Granger?"

"You're different from the others. You don't grovel and pander and concede." Hermione thought for a second. "I think Riddle's scared of you."

"Hurting the company means hurting my own future. I don't have much of an incentive to help you."

Hermione eyed him shrewdly. "I think you have more moral fiber than that, Black. And I think you hate the idea of being under someone's thumb. You've seen the numbers – you know when you have to cheat to spin a quarterly profit, it can't last. I think you'd be better off on the other side. The _right_ side."

"Fair enough," he said. "But you know Riddle is going to have a plan to worm his way out of the blame. You've been in the business now. There's a fair chance you could get hurt."

Hermione bit her lip. "I know. But this has to be done. If we cut off these seven lifelines, Riddle won't have a backup. Then we can cut VoldeMart down and it'll stay down."

Black looked down at the codes in his hands, hardly believing the nerve of the girl in front of him. She was laying it all on the line, trusting him like this. And deceiving Riddle … she could get seriously hurt.

Did she know about Myrtle?

She could get killed.

She could get _him_ killed. In the interest of self-preservation…

But Mafalda would tell him to do the right thing. This couldn't be that difficult – if Hermione had access to Riddle's computer, he could set a tracer, get a live feed back to his laptop. And it would be simple from there, really. Dead simple.

"All right," Black said. "Get me into his computer. Get me a spare hour. And I'll get you the information you need." He kneaded his brow for a second. "But you realize you'll have to fly to the actual location of the accounts and close them in person, right?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "Shit," she said. "I can't afford a plane ticket."

"You … but …"

"Scholarship," she said, and gave a wry chuckle. "This must be rather illuminating for you. Sorry to unload this all at once."

"…right," Cygnus said, staring at her like she was a Martian. "Erm. I can get a ticket for you, I suppose."

"Then it's a deal." Hermione stuck out a hand.

Cygnus didn't hesitate before grabbing it and shaking. A rush of exhilaration flew through his breast, and he straightened up. The idea of autonomy – of having nothing to hide from Mafalda – of having a plethora of paths open, with no risk of blackmail…

"Thank you," he said.

oOo

Riddle closed the browser, sighing. He'd wandered onto Reddit again, and once he found himself in that part of the internet, he knew it would occupy hours unless he escaped fast.

He found himself rather bored.

He could go to the Den, get a new bag of snow, pick up a girl.

Wait – no, he couldn't get a girl. Everyone knew he was with Hermione, now. Exclusive.

What an odd notion, being tied down like this. Then again, kissing her was more entertaining by far than kissing any other girl, so cheating didn't hold any real appeal. And the very notion of Hermione being _his_ gave him far more satisfaction than a potential fling with someone else could.

Maybe he'd accost her in the library. A tryst among the stacks would be rather fun. She'd probably object, but she'd enjoy it as much as he would, he knew.

Decided, Riddle exited his room and locked the door behind him.

oOo

As Cygnus left the library, Hermione tucked the paper back into her hoodie pocket and zipped it up with a satisfied sigh. Goodness, sharing the load had done a wonder for her stress level. She could feel it slipping down by the second.

She could get Cygnus his hour to wire up Riddle's computer before break started, easily. And then she would use Christmas break to close the accounts – the only remaining challenge would be to find that USB before Tom realized the accounts had been tampered with.

Hermione felt a strange sadness. He would never forgive her.

How could she return to Harry, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Neville? Her friends, who were infinitely better people… and infinitely less fascinating? How could she replace conversation with the brightest boy she'd ever met?

Hermione frowned and stood up. Again with the traitorous thoughts. She was doing the entire world a service by toppling the empire – the loss of the acquaintance of one Tom Riddle didn't matter.

But it hurt to think about what he would do when he found out.

The anguished look of betrayal.

He would hate her. He would want to murder her.

But it wouldn't matter, because he would be in jail for years.

Then a voice murmured into her ear, "Quite the interesting conversation you just had."

Hermione turned around and met the stormy gray eyes of Aquilus Lestrange.

Her lips went slack and her heart quit beating.

x

x

x

* * *

**Don't forget to leave me a review! You will bring joy to my soul!**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Speechwriter**


	15. AmaZonko's

**Thank you so much for your feedback! Figured I'd update ASAP because of the douchebag cliffhanger. XD**

**I don't usually append quotes, but I think I may start doing so. My inspiration comes from strange, yet fun places.**

**Here's a quote from my favorite band (and my namesake!), the Speechwriters LLC. (Perfect writing music, if anyone needs some! Also just great music in general.)**

**oOo**

**"And the steady-state waves of inherited faith **

**Well, they crackle into static as they're hitting the tape **

**And if this is not a game then it's getting too late to go home **

**But instead of getting caught when they turn up the lights **

**On the very last call of a Saturday night **

**I can take a final longshot at getting it right."**

**-Go Home, by the Speechwriters LLC**

**oOo**

* * *

Riddle opened the library door, and his world seemed to flip.

Two figures struggled in the middle of the library. Neither faced the door, but Riddle knew them instantly. Aquilus Lestrange had his hands around Hermione's throat. She was half-sunk on the carpeted floor, thrashing.

For a few terrible moments, Riddle was paralyzed. He didn't know what to do. What was happening? What the hell was Lestrange doing? Had Riddle ordered him to do this? No – this was not planned, this was not supposed to be going on, this was _wrong –_

Then Hermione's struggles slowed, she sagged, and Riddle stopped thinking.

He grabbed the metal footstool from beside the front desk and stalked forward.

And he smashed the stool into the back of Lestrange's head with a sickening _crunch_.

The boy toppled instantly. His forehead slammed into the corner of a table as he fell, and he slumped in a heap on the floor.

Riddle dropped to his knees beside Hermione, catching her in his arms. "Fucking Christ," he said through gritted teeth. She was unconscious. Why the bloody hell had Lestrange done this? The idiot had almost killed her. The very possibility made Riddle's grip tighten on her shoulders. And as for Hermione, why hadn't she run from Lestrange? Why had she let him get hold of her throat like that? He felt hideously angry at her all of a sudden, furious that she could be so careless.

He looked around. "Madam Pince," he called, trying to keep his voice strong. "Madam Pince!"

It took a minute before the librarian emerged from her room near the back. Her face froze in horror at the sight of the fallen students. "Goodness!" she said. "What happened? Tom –"

"When I came in, Aquilus had his hands around Hermione's neck –"

Madam Pince's hands flew to her mouth. "Gracious!" she squeaked. "But why?"

"I've no clue. I hit him rather hard, though. And he smacked the table on the way down."

"I'll call the Headmaster," she said, hurrying to the intercom. Riddle looked back at Hermione, whose neck was already starting to bruise with purple fingerprints. He held two fingers to her neck, feeling her pulse.

"Stupid," he whispered. "Stupid."

He checked Aquilus, who also had a bruise spreading across his face. Apparently Hermione had put up a fight.

Riddle's eyes fell on the footstool, which bore a smear of blood where it had whacked into Lestrange. He better not have damaged the boy permanently; that would be more than a little inconvenient. The stool wasn't exactly light – and with the speed he'd swung it…

Damn it all, if he got expelled because of some idiotic heroics…

_At least she's alive,_ said the voice in the back of his mind, and he blinked a few times, stamping out the thought. Her safety was not worth his expulsion.

_Oh, really?_ said the voice.

He gritted his teeth and shook Hermione gently. Oxygen deprivation shouldn't have made her faint for more than a couple minutes.

Lestrange, on the other hand, could have serious head trauma.

Damn it all. This was exactly why impulsive action was foolish. What was he, one of the jocks from Griffin's Door? Randomly attacking, without thinking it through? He could have just told Lestrange to stop, and the boy would have without a second thought.

Hermione stirred, and every regret streamed from his mind. "Hermione."

Her eyes cracked open and took him in. "Tom?"

"What did you do? Why did he –"

She reached up with a shaky hand and put a finger on his lips. "Wait. You – you saved me?" she said, with a light frown.

"Well, no need to sound so surprised."

"Why were you even … here?"

"I was coming to visit while you studied," he said.

Hermione's eyes opened more fully, and sluggish relief pervaded her senses. Thank God he hadn't chosen to arrive fifteen minutes earlier, while she and Cygnus had been discussing how best to topple his empire.

She regretted how she'd handled the Lestrange thing. Unsure of how much he'd heard exactly, she'd feigned ignorance … but he'd heard it all. Heard everything. And then he'd grabbed her, and she'd used the nearest item – a computer mouse – to clobber him in the face. Not exactly the most effective method of defense.

Dread flooded her veins, mingled with icy panic. It was over. Lestrange would tell Tom, and he would disassociate himself from her. He would never trust her again.

Hermione looked up into Tom's eyes and said, "Please don't leave me."

A sort of pain creased his expression for a split second. "I won't," he said.

Gripped in his strong arms, she considered how very real the possibility was that she would never feel this touch again. That she would never kiss him again; never even speak to him again.

The notion was unexpectedly repulsive.

As she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes finally caught Lestrange's immobile body lying feet away. She took in a tense breath. "What on earth did you do to him?"

"Stopped him from killing you."

"Right, no, I mean, how exactly did that process occur?"

"Smashed his head with that footstool."

Hermione gaped for a second, and then the door burst wide.

"On your feet, Tom," said Dumbledore sharply. Hermione had never heard his voice like that – curt, businesslike, free of all sympathy or compassion. Dippet, scurrying along behind Dumbledore, looked more of the deputy than the Headmaster at the moment. Professor Slughorn and Professor Boggs, the biology teacher, hurried over to Aquilus's body, checked the back of his head, and after a quick conferral, rushed him out of the library.

Riddle slid his arms around Hermione and lifted her as he stood. "Hermione's been hurt."

"Madam Pince informed us of that fact, thank you, Tom," Dumbledore said. "Ms. Granger, can you walk?"

"I … yes, I think so," Hermione said. Tom rested her gently on her feet, and as blood swirled in her head, her vision blacked temporarily. She swayed, and his arm tightened around her waist.

"Hmm," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes critical. "Stay here, for the time being. We'll bring you to the Infirmary afterwards."

Dippet cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, that is indeed what we shall do. Now, Tom, if you could please tell us what hap –"

"I'd like Ms. Granger to recount the events of tonight, if you please, Armando," said Dumbledore.

The two men looked at each other for a single second. Hermione's mouth went dry. The outrage in Dippet's eyes at being subordinated to a professor was fearsome – but more fearsome was the raw power in Dumbledore's eyes, a gaze more intense than any amount of anger could summon.

"Very well," Dippet said quietly, looking away.

"I …" Hermione said. She cleared her throat. "I was in the library doing some research."

When Dumbledore's eyes turned back to her, they had softened. And thank God_. _"What sort of research?" he asked.

"Exports. I thought I'd double-check something for economics, but I got sort of sidetracked by the Economist website." She forced a blush to her cheeks, hoping the waver in her voice would be attributed to the traumatic experience of being half-strangled.

"Understandable," Dumbledore said. "I find they have wonderful articles on the usefulness of penguins in cooking programs."

Hermione blinked rapidly. "…er. I think that would be the Onion, not the Economist."

"Ah." Dumbledore's brows creased. "It is rather difficult to tell them apart, on occasion."

"Anyway," Tom said pointedly.

Dumbledore gave him a quick glance. "Yes. Go ahead, Ms. Granger. What happened next?"

"Aquilus came up to me –" Her voice cracked rather conveniently, and she crossed her arms, shrinking a bit. "He said I wasn't … wasn't good enough."

"What do you mean?"

"He … I haven't publicized it, but he found out I attend Hogwarts on scholarship. He said this was no place for those _of inferior birth,_ whatever that's supposed to mean."

Tom's grip tightened on her waist. She looked up at him, caught the tightening in his jaw.

"And your response…" said Dumbledore.

"I, er." She scratched the back of her neck. "I told him to go screw himself. Only with… more colorful language."

"I assume… he did not take that well."

"No."

"And that single insult provoked him into attempted strangulation?" said Dippet, seemingly unbelieving.

"I also …" Hermione cleared her throat and stared at her shoes. "I also told him that if being born of his mother didn't constitute _inferior birth_, I didn't know what did."

To Hermione's surprise, Dumbledore let out a light chuckle. But as soon as she looked at him, his face reverted back to grave severity. "Ms. Granger, I'm surprised you didn't have the prudence simply to walk away."

Her cheeks flamed. Even though none of it was true, the disappointment in his tone burned into her chest. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think he would take such rash action."

"So, he proceeded to take you by the throat…" Dippet said.

"Yes. And I hit him in the face with that mouse over there." Hermione pointed at the mouse, whose cord had come free from its USB port. "But it didn't help. He just sort of dragged me back, still holding on. And it's a blur from there. I just remember trying to get away, hearing the door open, and passing out."

"Yes, that's when I came in," Tom said. "I couldn't really think for a minute. I shouldn't have hit him… but she went limp, and I had to … had to … something." He buried a hand in his hair and nodded to the footstool. "Well, you can see I used that to get the job done. I'm sincerely sorry. Poor judgment on my part."

"No need to worry; I think we can all agree it was a provoked attack, Tom," Dippet said.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "If, of course, the security cameras corroborate your stories."

"Of course," Tom said, relieved that for once he had nothing to hide. It really had just been a misjudged moment of bizarre selflessness, which he could hardly believe himself, let alone expect Dumbledore to do the same. "I called Madam Pince, and she called you immediately."

Dumbledore nodded and beckoned to Tom. "Let's look at those cameras, shall we?"

"But …"

"Come along."

Tom straightened up. "But we need to take Hermione to the –"

"No, Tom; Headmaster Dippet is more than capable of accompanying her to the Infirmary by himself."

"But I have to make sure she's –"

"_Ms. Granger will be fine_." Dumbledore's words rang with finality.

If Hermione had thought it was hard to see Dippet war wordlessly with Dumbledore, seeing Tom do it was a million times worse. His dark eyes blazed with pride, with the simple inability to admit defeat. Neither backed down. They were practically of equal height, and the calm authority in Dumbledore's eyes matched Tom's rage ounce for ounce.

"I'll be fine, Tom," she said, finally, her voice strong.

He glanced down at her, the hard look fading from his eyes. "Are you sure?" he mumbled, as if he didn't want Dumbledore to hear him expressing his concern. "I'll stay, if you need me. Don't say you're all right if you're not."

"I'm quite all right. Trust me."

He considered for a second, nodded, and kissed her on the forehead. "Shall we go, Professor?" he said, turning away. His hand finally dropped from her waist, but she didn't sway. The pounding in her head had receded to a dull ache.

Some indecipherable expression lay on Dumbledore's features. He strode off, and Tom followed.

Dippet sighed and laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Well, let's be off, then. No use hanging around here all night long, eh, Ms. Granger?" he blustered. She got the feeling he was shaken, unused to handling even minor crises with any degree of adequacy.

"Yes," she said, but her eyes were fixed on Tom's back as he slipped out of the library.

She could have sworn he gave a glance back as the door creaked shut.

Then her heart gave a great jolt.

_Security tapes._

Tom would see her meeting with Black.

Plans started streaming through her mind, piecing bits and ends together. Who could she find? What could she say? What to do? Within seconds, she knew.

"I … Professor, I actually feel all right, after all," she said. "I'd just like to go return something to a friend, if you don't mind." She pulled the folded paper out of her pocket and waved it around vaguely before tucking it back into her sweater.

Dippet frowned. "Are you quite sure? The nurse should really check –"

Hermione gave an impatient sigh. "Really, I'm fine. You needn't worry – there won't be any lasting damage. My throat just rather hurts." She checked the clock on the wall. "I'm sorry, Headmaster, I really must go."

"I … well, all right. I'll speak to Madam Pince for a while, then, get another side of the story." Dippet sounded almost affronted. He bustled to the back, where Pince was compulsively stacking books.

Hermione walked as calmly as she could to the library door, slipped out, and sprinted.

oOo

"Quite the incident, eh, Tom?" said Dumbledore.

Tom didn't know what it was about Albus Dumbledore. Every word the professor said made him hate the man more. Was it the knowing look? The benign smile? The slow, careful way he formed his words, which reminded Tom too much of himself for comfort?

"Quite the incident indeed." Tom shook his head. "I … don't know what came over me, really. If I'd just told Aquilus to stop… if he'd just realized someone had seen him, he probably would have."

Really, the longer he thought about it, the less sense it made. One of his own followers had attacked Hermione like that? Really? It was plausible that Aquilus had found out about Hermione's birth, but he wouldn't have gone for her throat on a simple goad. She must have threatened him somehow, posed some real danger to him, for him to want to kill her.

Aquilus would have needed the utmost reasoning for wanting to murder – he _knew_ she was Tom's. He _knew_ Tom hated it when his possessions were tampered with.

_Not a possession,_ said the stupid voice in the back of his head.

_Irrelevant,_ he told himself fiercely, and returned to the analysis. Aquilus really had been risking a lot. He'd been risking Riddle's wrath, and he knew what that entailed…

So why?

Had Hermione found something out about Aquilus, some secret the boy needed to keep buried? Were his followers keeping secrets from him?

"Have you ever been to the video room before?" Dumbledore asked calmly, as they passed the entrance to Raven Club.

"No, sir."

"It's quite the sight." Dumbledore took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked a heavy wooden door.

Tom had to admit the truth in the professor's words. The plethora of small screens on the wall before him felt strangely intimidating, as if they were watching him and not the other way around.

"Now, let's see," Dumbledore muttered, shutting the door. "Which of these…" As he strolled around, mumbling to himself, Tom allowed himself a private eyeroll of disgust. He waited for what seemed like forever as the evolution professor peeked at each and every one of the live video feeds.

oOo

Hermione burst into the Den. "Cygnus," she said. "I need Cygnus. Where is he?"

"Goodness," said Ingrid Greengrass, eyeing Hermione's disheveled hair. "You look a mess."

"Cygnus! Please!"

Ingrid waved a manicured hand over her shoulder, looking mildly alarmed. "He's there, don't have a heart attack, Granger."

Hermione rushed through to the back room, to the scandalized looks of many. Luckily, Cygnus was quite near the door. "I need your help," she gasped.

"What?"

"Come on, come with me."

"Bloody hell, Granger, what are you –"

With a mighty yank, she lunged into motion. Before Black could utter another word, they were racing out of the Den and down the hallway.

It wasn't until they were in the elevator that Hermione spoke. "Aquilus heard. We got into a fight. Riddle's in the video room now with Dumbledore; they're going to rewind the security tapes, they're going to see us speaking."

Cygnus's eyes widened. "_What?_"

"We have to get rid of that tape!"

"How the hell are we supposed to do that?"

"Can't we get into it from the camera in the library?"

"It's probably recorded into some hard drive in the video room –"

Hermione bit her lip. "Then… it'd be linked to the school network, yeah?"

"I …" Cygnus narrowed his eyes. "All right, we could… I could _try_ to get to it. How long has it been?"

"They left the library about five minutes ago."

"That's some fast running you did."

"Yes. I know." They got out at the second floor and rushed to Hermione's room, opening her borrowed school laptop. "There," she said, and her nails bit into her palms. She shoved the computer at Cygnus.

He popped his knuckles and got to work.

oOo

"This one," Dumbledore said, unhooking one of the screens from the wall and bringing it down to rest on the table.

"Why do we have so many cameras?"

"The school board deemed it necessary, after the … events of fifth year." Dumbledore took a peek over his shoulder at Tom, calmly analyzing the Head Boy's facial reaction (little) and the vocal reaction (none). "I'm afraid, Tom, that second chances are earned, not freely given. And the school board thinks we have too much freedom afforded our students as it is."

Riddle shook his head. "Isn't this an invasion of privacy?"

"It is for the greater go –"

Dumbledore cut himself off in a way Riddle had never seen before.

Riddle cocked his head as the professor bowed his head over the screen, fiddling with the touchpad with more agitation than necessary. What was that about? What unsettled Dumbledore about the idea of a greater good?

"Professor," he said carefully, "what was it like to win the Nobel Prize?"

Dumbledore's slim frame shook as he exhaled slowly. "There is no glory in the defeat of a great mind," he murmured.

"But … Grindelwald wanted to use the prize money to make biological warfare a real danger," Tom said. "He would have made pathogens that could have leveled countries. How do you qualify that as _great_?" Tom saw it as great, of course, but why the hell would _Dumbledore_ think the same?

"One can be both great and terrible, Tom." Dumbledore turned to him. "I rather think you should understand."

Riddle froze a little on the inside. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You should realize that from some of the most awe-inspiring intellects have stemmed man's greatest downfalls. Never forget that Einstein helped create the atom bomb, Mr. Riddle."

"I … right." Tom stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes, hoping someday to be equally great. And – if necessary – equally terrible.

oOo

Cygnus's fingers blurred over the keyboard, and his dark hair fell over his piercing eyes. Hermione rather envied this talent – she resolved then and there to learn how exactly hacking worked. All she knew was that Cygnus had started typing, and the screen had started doing strange things, and before she could really even register how he'd gotten started, he was so far into the process that it seemed rather redundant to ask any questions.

"All right, we're on the administrative account now," he mumbled, shoving his hair out of his eyes. "You're really not doing wonders for my stress level, Hermione."

Hermione gave a nervous laugh as he flashed a sulky, weirdly endearing pout at her. "So what now?" she asked.

"Now…" Cygnus pulled up a window with 250 different folders. They were not classified by name. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Now we get to finding which damn feed this is, and we pray to God he hasn't already seen."

oOo

Dumbledore pressed the rewind button. The image on the screen rewound.

"Does this have audio?" asked Tom.

"No. The board did find that to be more invasive – and expensive – than strictly necessary." Dumbledore slowed the rewind to a crawl, and paused it when the small Hermione on the screen sat alone at the computer. The computer screen was wobbly and unreadable on the video, but she appeared to be reading whatever was on it.

Then Lestrange crept up from behind her and muttered something in her ear. Hermione jerked in her seat, turned, and said something in response. Lestrange, flexing his fingers, replied.

At Hermione's next words, he grabbed for her.

Riddle couldn't decide whether the move seemed defensive or offensive, and it was a key factor to distinguish. If Hermione really had just antagonized him into ignoring his better judgment, he would be offensive – but if she'd threatened him, he'd be on the defensive.

The choking Hermione ripped the computer mouse from its computer and crashed it into Lestrange's face.

He pulled her out of her seat by the throat, and her mouth gaped open. As Lestrange shook her like a rag doll, Dumbledore let out a small noise, and murderous rage filled Riddle to the brim. Vindictive delight spread through him at what was to come. He didn't regret a thing. He would do it again in a second.

Riddle watched himself with a sort of fascination as he entered the screen. He had such an accurate self-concept that seeing the way his body moved on camera was never really a surprise… but here it was different.

Here, he looked almost foreign to himself. The way his body seized in immediate reaction, and as Hermione went limp, his instinctive motion…

Very odd.

Dumbledore seemed to think so, too. He gave Tom half a glance as the screen-Tom seized the footstool and whacked Lestrange on the back of the head.

"A hard blow."

"I know," Tom said. "Like I said. I didn't … think."

He was not used to saying those words. They tasted dirty, sacrilegious.

"May I …" Riddle swallowed. "May I see it again? The first part. I just can't believe he'd leap at her like that."

Dumbledore hit rewind.

oOo

"No. No. Wrong. Nope. No, no… nope…"

"Would you stop it?" Hermione snapped. "Just check, you don't need to say when each one is wrong –" She cut herself off with a mighty sigh. The tension split her nerves further with each passing second. Agonizing.

"There," Cygnus said, and Hermione's skin seemed electrified. "The library."

"Go! Kill it! Slay it!" Hermione yelped, not really knowing what she was saying.

"All right. Three… two…"

"JUST DAMN DELETE IT –"

oOo

"Hold on," Tom said sharply. "What –"

Dumbledore had rewound a little too far. A figure was halfway off the screen, and Hermione was looking after it. "Go back," Tom said. "Who is that?"

Dumbledore sent the tape creeping back.

But just as the figure moved fully into the picture, the screen went black.

Dumbledore tapped the screen, looking mildly bemused. "That's odd. These are relatively new."

He turned it off and restarted it, but the video had seemingly reset. The only video record of the library was now from twenty-eight seconds before. Right after the cut.

But the figure lay clear at the forefront of Riddle's mind. The mid-length dark hair. The broad shoulders, the lazy stride evident even in rewind-motion. Cygnus Black.

What had Cygnus and Hermione been doing in the library? Together? Without his supervision?

Instant jealousy raced hot through Riddle's blood, and he straightened up from the useless technology. Dumbledore fiddled with it for a few more seconds before putting it back into place on the wall with a shrug. "I suppose, Mr. Riddle, that that is that."

Riddle couldn't even bring himself to snap at the asininity of the statement. _I suppose that that is that._ Jesus Christ, and this man was _teaching_ him? Old coot.

"Gonna… go," he said absentmindedly. "Check on Hermione."

"Yes. I hope all is well," Dumbledore said. "Shut the door behind you, please."

As soon as Riddle left, the look on his face turned from forced blankness to utter rage. Hermione should not be cavorting around in libraries with Black. Cygnus had been notable for a lack of respect before – what if he was a traitor, seeking to poison her against him?

What if Aquilus had seen Cygnus trying to coerce Hermione away from Riddle? A double agent in the ranks … that could certainly force Aquilus to violence.

Could _Hermione_ be a double agent? Those obnoxious scruples she had…

No, though. That was absurd. Riddle simply refused to believe that _his_ girlfriend; _his _woman; _his_ right-hand operative would even consider a betrayal. Yes, she preached day and night. But that was to his face. Sneaking around behind his back? A preposterous notion, for one so laughably forthright. Hermione wouldn't dare hurt him; she was in love with him.

Unless that was a lie. Unless she didn't love him. _Unless she wasn't his._

A fire lit beneath Riddle's skin, and his lips turned down at the sides the tiniest bit. He had to stop in the middle of the hall to collect himself – he suddenly felt like inducing extreme physical violence. Preferably on something inanimate, though in a pinch, something animate would work too.

Or what if Lestrange had seen Hermione betraying Riddle, in a way that only she could?

If Hermione and Cygnus had been …

No. When she'd said she was in love with him – on multiple occasions – her voice had rung with truth. She wouldn't dare cheat. Her moral code was too stringent for that, surely. And love, pure devotion, couldn't be scoffed at.

Hell, was Black even attractive enough for Hermione to consider cheating? Tom couldn't look at that sort of thing objectively, but in his humble opinion, he himself was attractive enough to make up for even the ugliest specimens of Hogwarts. Even Eleanor Midgen, cursed with the most unfortunate face since the notorious mountain-troll-hybrid incident of 1785.

Riddle shook his head. He just needed to wait until Lestrange woke up, so he could interrogate him. He would find out the truth. And there would be a reckoning.

He found himself storming into his bedroom and slamming the door behind him, though he'd been planning on going to the Infirmary. He felt a strange coldness in the pit of his stomach, then, as he realized he'd abandoned Hermione to the lonely Hospital Wing.

Some part of his mind recognized the sensation as that of guilt.

_What. What the hell am I guilty about?_

"Tom?" came Hermione's voice from the vent.

He twitched around and stared at the vent. So she was all right, after all, not even in the Infirmary. The odd cold guilt subsided, to his intense relief, and was replaced by the far more familiar rage of before. Hermione and Black. Hermione's voice saying Black's name … even the mere suggestion made a coil of fury twist up inside his throat. "Not now," he said through gritted teeth, and threw himself onto his bed.

"What's that supposed to mean, _not now_?"

"I'm not speaking with you now."

"Well, any particular reason why?" she asked, her voice acid. "Or are you just being petulant?"

"I am not petulant!" he snapped.

"Au contraire," her disembodied voice muttered.

Riddle stared at the stone ceiling, wanting to smash something. It would be so easy just to blurt it out, to demand, _What were you doing with Black in the library?_

But she would lie, if it were anything bad. She was an awful liar, yes, but maybe she'd get lucky. Sometimes he couldn't be sure if she was lying or just being her usual righteous fast-talking self. In fact, that had been happening increasingly lately.

What if he was losing perspective on her? What if he was losing control? He had to know she was his. He had to be more sure of it than anything else, if he was going to give her the power to negotiate the biggest merger in VoldeMart history.

The idea of losing her made him stick his hands deep into the pockets of his weathered jeans. She was such a valuable asset…

Unable to restrain the tense energy in his muscles, he flung himself from his bed and threw his bedroom door open. It banged against the stone wall, and he hammered on Hermione's door.

"What in the name of shit is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice muffled from inside. "I'm not opening this door until you calm down from whatever state you're in."

"Why?"

"Because bloody hell, Tom! You scare me when you're like this! And after admitting what you did to Caroline, you really think I'm giving you the opportunity to get angrier at me than you seemingly already are?"

"I'm not angry at you, you stupid girl," he spat.

"Oh, yes, that was _incredibly _convincing."

"Would you just open the damn –"

The door flew open, and Hermione stared up at him with fury glinting in her eyes. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, I've just been strangled to within an inch of my life, talked into a state somewhere between stupefaction and death by our headmaster's seemingly inexhaustible store of useless words, and damn it all _I am not_ dealing with some temper tantrum you feel inclined to inflict on the nearest living being!"

He took a step back. No one had ever lifted their voice to quite that shrill decibel level in his direction.

"I … ah," he said, because he couldn't bring himself to say he was sorry. Also, he wasn't sorry, so there was that.

As his eyes traced the bruises around her neck, the rage smoldering in his chest simmered into a sort of weary concern. "Are you feeling all right?" he said. "I don't need to bludgeon Lestrange again, do I?"

"I wouldn't mind if you did. The arsewipe." Hermione turned away, leaving the door open. "Come in, then, if you have to."

He shut the door quietly behind him and perched himself on the edge of her bed.

"What's wrong?" Hermione sighed. "Let's have it."

He could lie. It would be simple enough to say he was stressed about the company and the attack on her had been a snapping point. He probably had a seventy-five percent chance she'd believe that excuse.

Or he could tell the truth.

A little odd, he mused, that he was considering telling the truth, when from a tactical standpoint, the truth gave him hardly any advantage. But her words from the woods slipped into his mind and replayed.

_Not everything is quantifiable and analytical._

_Why can't you let yourself let go of your control obsession for once, just not worry about consequences and motives and the science of it all?_

Because he simply wasn't built that way.

Though that one night… the night they'd spent together, speaking only truths. Some had been simple truths, some more than that – but how oddly satisfying it had all been. How oddly therapeutic, like sinking a bundle of tired muscles into a hot bath to uncurl.

He was wound tight. And if he couldn't trust a girl who loved him, who could he trust?

_Myself. I can trust myself._ The only person he'd ever been able to trust, since his parents had betrayed him before he'd even understood the notion of betrayal. He shouldn't break the habit, really – it had served him so well thus far.

And yet the truth slipped from his lips. "What were you and Black doing in the library?"

"What?" she said. The word was so terse that he couldn't pick up on her tone, exactly.

"Caught a glimpse of you and him on camera." He gave a slow, moody shrug and lay back on Hermione's bed. It smelled like her. Clean, fresh, invigorating.

"I … I can't believe you," Hermione said. "You're angry about _that_? You're getting paranoid about Cygnus bumping into me in the library? We were talking about International Relations, for Christ's sake."

"Oh." He considered for a second. "Yes, I forgot he took that useless class."

"It's not useless!" She threw open her window, taking in a breath of frosty air seemingly to calm herself. "You are trying my limits tonight. Really. _Cygnus Black._"

"At least I was honest," he murmured.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, her gaze critical, yet somehow torn. "Yes," she said. "That's something. I hope it's a new habit."

"Come here."

She seemed to oblige only because she was too exhausted to make some snarky comeback. She lay on the bed next to him. "I'm tired," she sighed. "I'm sick of all this."

"Burned out?"

Her lips twitched in a smile. "Only if you are."

Riddle curled around her, a parenthesis containing her frenzied words. "I am too, rather," he murmured, and pressed his lips to the back of her abused neck. "And I'm furious at him, by the way. No one will ever touch you besides me."

"Getting a bit possessive, are we?" Hermione turned over, traced a finger over his lips. A light frown touched her features. "It's a little repulsive on you."

"Possessiveness? Why?" His lips moved under her soft fingertip, a resistance barely present.

"Because," she said, "one would think you of all people would have enough confidence not to need jealousy."

"The confident are always jealous, Hermione. They know what it feels to have; they know the feeling of possession. And it's addictive."

Her eyes grew serious. "You do not possess me."

He draped an arm lazily over her waist and drew circles with his thumb on her back, right above the waistband of her jeans. "Really?"

"I promise you, you will never own me."

Riddle's supreme displeasure leaked into his expression.

Then Hermione's lip quirked, and she scooted closer, hooking a thumb into his fraying belt loop. "But that doesn't mean I'm not yours."

He kissed her and whispered onto her lips, "I have no idea what that's supposed to mean."

"I know," she whispered back, though in the silence it could have been a shout. "Work on it, Tom. I'd hate for a puzzle to stump you."

He grinned slowly, a flash of something feral making his regal features crooked. "Don't worry." He moved over her onto all fours, rested his knees on either side of her thighs. "I figure everything out eventually."

As he trailed one slow kiss over her collarbone, Hermione bit her lip and frowned up at the ceiling.

She almost did wish he would figure it out.

Maybe if he would just grasp what love was, what humanity was, she could excuse herself for this traitorous passion. And for its partner, infinitely more terrifying: traitorous compassion.

oOo

Midterms started. To Hermione's fury, she had Linguistics first. Was there any worse way to begin a harrowing week than by staring into a bowl of alphabet soup and forming different morphemes? She didn't think she'd ever done anything so ridiculous. By the end of exam, her ability to snort had practically been worn out. Even Tom's polite mask looked dangerously thin. They shared a slew of quiet insults regarding Professor Trelawney whenever the woman left earshot – otherwise Hermione didn't think she would have survived the exam period.

"Oh!" wailed Trelawney, as she passed their bowl. She staggered back, clutching at her chest. "Ms. Granger! Mr. Riddle! Do you see it?"

"No," said Hermione, staring at the soggy soup. "Frankly, I see nothing except the reflections of the rather outdated incandescent bulbs you use in these odd ceramic lamp things –"

Tom's fingers pressed harder against his mouth, as if to stop his lips from quivering in restrained amusement.

Trelawney drew a deeper gasp. "My dear," she said, "you have … the _im._"

"Oh, right," Hermione said, prodding the letters bobbing in the soup. "Missed that one. Could you write it down, Tom? Morpheme number seventeen –"

"The _im,_ dear girl, the _im!_" Trelawney cried, moving even further back. Any more steps, and she'd walk right into Phino Bertiwoff's table. Hermione almost thought that'd be an improvement; maybe if the soup went flying, it'd land on the old bat's head –

"What exactly does the _im_ mean?" said Tom.

"Oh, Mr. Riddle. It is a great and terrible morpheme."

Tom frowned at the words, though Hermione couldn't be sure why.

"It is a bound morpheme, the allomorph of _in, il, _and_ ir,_ none of which is quite as foreboding as… the _im._" Her deep voice trembled. "The _im _signifies the antithesis of all things achieved," Trelawney said, one knobbly finger quavering in the general direction of their soup. "The destruction of goodness and hope! The –"

"It's a morpheme," Hermione said flatly. "I'm sorry, but I hardly see anything mystical about it, Professor. It just means negation –"

"Exactly," moaned Trelawney. "Negation. Ruination."

Hermione glanced over at Riddle. As their eyes met, he raised one eyebrow, and it was all she could do not to burst into a fit of laughter. What was this woman on about?

"Communication is the most important thing in this world, Ms. Granger," said Trelawney quietly, "and the inability to communicate truthfully shall soon be your downfall, I fear."

The urge to laugh died in Hermione's chest. That … seemed eerily accurate.

As Trelawney swept away, Hermione watched the letters in the alphabet soup saturate, darken, and sink altogether.

"Idiotic woman," Riddle muttered.

"I know," Hermione said, but her agreement was half-hearted at best. Nonsensical as Trelawney's methods had been of obtaining the verdict, Hermione had to confront it.

Something stirred in her as she watched Tom chasing the last letter around the edge of the bowl with his pencil. A careful fondness, reined in only by her own prudence. A certain lightness, a knowledge that the both of them had found that tenuous balance between frustration, competition, respect, and …

And something else.

Affection?

Or was it trust?

And which was more dangerous?

x

x

x

* * *

**"The art of losing isn't hard to master;**

**so many things seem filled with the intent**

**to be lost that their loss is no disaster."**

**-One Art, Elizabeth Bishop**

* * *

**Brief note to anon who finds my Hermione idiotic –**

**XD Is it strange that I find your reviews weirdly motivational? Like, I feel driven toward self-betterment! LET'S GO**

**In any case, working on it. I know her discussing the plans in the library was definitely a stretch. We'll see – hey, that's what edits are for. :D Thanks for your willingness to deal with my logic lapses, and that goes for everyone. Linking plot and characterization is a big thing I need to work on.**

**Much love, and drop me a review if you'd like to light up my life with unicorns and kittens and delectable pastries. (Seriously. They rain from the sky when reviews happen)**

**ANYWAY**

**Speechwriter**


	16. Universal Music Grawp

**Thanks for the support, guys! Broke 400 reviews YAYAYAY :D**

**asincerelackofaudacity, riddle1rave, Molly Dooker, TK Grimm, dormlifelivin, fanficftw23, pyah, SamarKanda, moor, kcluvssugar, MeriLynelle, Chocolatey de Choco, anon, bailey vicious, A Person, OrchidsAndVines, Loren, BlackShirt16, Ijoan, lania26d, cocoartist, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, sweet-tang-honney, Cellar, XxTaintedDaggerxX, mexicantt, and Gladioli!**

**And a quick response to Anon sort of - oh dude your concerns were totally understandable! Using OOC plot devices to achieve a certain plot path is super-lame and a HUGE thing that I do, in fanfic and my original fiction alike. I only meant to say that I appreciated your honesty - no excuses for lazy writing. And I'm very glad that you're enjoying the story nonetheless. :)**

**Thanks for reading, everyone -**

**Speechwriter**

**oOo**

**"I'm frightened by the devil  
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid  
I remember that time you told me, you said,  
"Love is touching souls."  
Surely you touched mine  
'Cause part of you pours out of me  
In these lines from time to time  
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine  
You taste so bitter and so sweet  
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling  
Still, I'd be on my feet  
I would still be on my feet****."**

**-A Case of You by Joni Mitchell**

**oOo**

* * *

"Oh, come off it, Hermione. It's the last party of the calendar year before the Den stops letting in people who don't room in the Dungeons; you're not missing it to study for _Economics, _of all classes."

"Professor Merrythought's exam is sure to be rigorous. What if –"

Mafalda expelled an impatient sigh. "What if you already know all the answers? Because that's the only logical question in this situation." She fixed Hermione with a stony glare. "I refuse to let you miss this party. I absolutely refuse, and you know I can be just as stubborn as you. Tom?"

Riddle slipped his arm around Hermione's waist. "I quite agree. You deserve a break."

"A break!" Hermione scoffed. "A _break._ Preposterous. I can't believe you two, we're in the middle of exams, you're such awful influences –"

Zara sat down at the table, looking around. "Are we trying to get Hermione to stop being such a wet blanket?"

Hermione deflated. "I … I am _not_ a …" But her voice faltered.

"Oh, come on," Tom said. "Surely you must know when you're being a wet blanket."

Her head snapped around to face him, and the hard look in her eyes burned so fiercely that he leaned back from her. "Sorry, my personality isn't a conscious decision, Tom," she snapped, standing up in one indignant motion. His arm dropped from her waist, and she flounced out of the Great Hall in a determined huff, leaving him bemused behind her.

Of course, it wasn't the idea of the party that upset her. How could she care about that? She had so many more important things to worry about – exams, for one, but they paled next to the fact that Lestrange had apparently suffered severe cerebral damage, and was lying in the hospital in a coma. Definitely a point of distress. What if he died? Or what if he woke up and told Tom everything? Far too much stress.

She hadn't found the time to get Cygnus into Tom's room yet, either, and Black would leave two days from now for the holidays. Not to mention that she hadn't found a thing with regard to that damn USB drive, even though she'd gotten Cygnus to examine the dormitories of every last boy in Riddle's group over the last week. Things were getting tenuous. So close to falling apart.

And when she checked her watch, she was late for her appointment with Professor Dumbledore.

"Oh, damn it all," she hissed to the empty corridor, breaking into a sprint.

When she arrived at his office, he gave her a bemused glance. "You seem rather out of breath, Hermione."

"I just ran here – I'm so sorry I'm late, my friends were hanging around in the Great Hall and they distracted –"

"It's quite all right. I'd love to speak with you further about this proposition for resolving the Kitchen workers' situation. By all means, take a seat."

Hermione sat, trying to stop panting, trying to focus on the positive. Finally, she might be able to shed light on the reasoning behind this continued injustice. One item on her checklist could be resolved. "Thank you, Professor. I just think it's so awful how these workers are being treated as second-class citizens, simply because we need employees and we can blackmail them into feeling as if they owe us some sort of allegiance."

"Yes, your perspective is surely a valid one." Dumbledore tapped his long beard, reading over her detailed proposal. For a while, they talked over the details – payment, vacation, legal implications of every section she'd outlined. Dumbledore seemed in favor of it, though not as enthusiastically as she'd expected. "The payment of minimum wage is certainly more than logical," he said, "though vacation time would be virtually unnecessary, remember. Hogwarts is, after all, their home, and a minimum wage payment would not afford them enough to go any substantive distance."

"Still, though." Hermione stuck her nose in the air. "It's a matter of principle."

Dumbledore sighed, putting down the paper. "Ms. Granger, I think Armando's principal concern is that, if our workers have money, they may start flooding to Hogsmeade to spend said funds, which would be dangerous for all parties involved. If they were identified as illegal workers, they could be deported, and Hogwarts could be involved in the second scandal of the last three years."

"Then legalize them, for God's sake."

"Eligibility requirements. All sorts of legal barriers. Unfortunately, these obstacles do present a certain –"

"But it's _wrong_," Hermione said hotly. Why didn't he see? He was Albus Dumbledore, for crying out loud, public advocate of all things human-rights related. "It's terrible that they're as bound to this place as they are to their illegal status. If they don't have the means to become citizens, then they need to be able to leave, or to go somewhere they can make that a reality. Tying them to a lawless existence is completely … completely inhumane!"

"Ah, Ms. Granger." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and he adjusted his glasses. "I am glad to see how resolute your morals remain."

The relief in his voice puzzled Hermione. She frowned. "I … what?"

Dumbledore waved a hand. "Nothing. It is merely a pleasure to see that you can hold your own against… outside influences of all varieties."

Did … did he mean _Tom?_

Had he been worrying about her association with Tom? Had he had an ulterior motive in calling her to this meeting? She sat back in disbelief, staring at him. Did he even really care about her proposal?

"I assure you I'm quite capable of sticking to my beliefs, Professor," she said.

What if she told Dumbledore everything … if she confided in him …?

But no – she still had no _proof._ And it would not do to let Dumbledore unveil the truth before Riddle's offshore accounts were disposed of, or he'd take precautions to secure them.

"Have you spoken to the workers about your proposition?" Dumbledore asked.

"I … yes." Hermione pursed her lips. "They were unreceptive, which is absurd, because this isn't anything that wouldn't benefit them directly –"

"A matter of perspective, of course." Dumbledore rose, seemingly deep in thought. "Ms. Granger, may I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes, of course."

"You are involved with our Head Boy. Romantically."

Hermione nodded.

"How does he feel about all this?"

She blinked. "Well, he … he cares about it because I do, but he doesn't feel any sort of compulsion toward the betterment of their circumstances. Which is bothersome, admittedly. Why?"

"Merely curious. Mr. Riddle is something of a puzzle to me, and I do like having all the pieces to arrange in order." He glanced at her, his blue eyes gentle. "Does he perplex you?"

"Of course." Hermione sighed. "He's … an enigma."

And so he was, in that he seemed to _respect_ her, in a bizarre way. He still wore her S.P.E.W. pin, complimented her, and put effort into their conversations, though she'd essentially stold him that he needed to do none of these things for her to be in love with him.

Jesus, she had said it enough times that it almost seemed to hold some shred of truth.

But of course he couldn't respect her. He still wasn't disclosing the full truth of his actions – didn't respect mean full disclosure?

No, though … Ron's parents had their secrets. Harry and Ginny had their secrets. Secrets were part of the draw, part of the mystique in any relationship. Respect – even love – didn't depend on utter honesty. It just depended on the type of secret.

But this was different than minor concealments like "Yes, I think that fluorescent bowtie looks lovely on you" or "No, that dress doesn't make you look like your arse has a tumor." This was deep; this was personal. This went against her beliefs.

"I will pitch your proposal to Armando over the break, Ms. Granger," said Dumbledore. "I suggest you speak again with the workers. Perhaps if you can find someone to champion your cause…"

"Thank you." Hermione sighed and stood.

"If you ever need to tell me anything…" His eyes met hers. "You do know where to find me."

She bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, Professor."

Then she hurried out into the hall, and the idea came to her. If she went to the Den with Tom, of course Cygnus would have adequate time with the computer in Tom's room, alone. _Perfect._ But he'd need some excuse to give Mafalda for why he wouldn't be there … she'd been planning on going with him, and she hated when he reneged on promises. Which wasn't often, granted, but still.

Hermione made her way back to the Great Hall, pulling her Economics book out of her bag. Maybe something would come to her while she studied.

To her surprise, the Hall was empty except for Tom, who sat exactly where she'd left him half an hour ago. "Where'd everyone go?" she said.

"After your dramatic exit, they decided to go have a snowball fight."

"Ah." Hermione set down her bag. "And I suppose you're not participating because of your detestation of fun in general." She still felt rather snappish – the words came out more vindictive than she'd intended.

"I don't hate fun. I merely have a different concept of what it entails." Riddle turned around on the bench and leaned against the table, stretching out his legs. "Listen. About what I said …"

She gave him a sharp look. "Yes?"

"Your personality is nothing to … it's …" He ran a hand through his hair. "I … wouldn't have it any other way."

Hermione frowned lightly. "Was that your version of an apology, then?"

"Yes."

"Pitiful. You need practice."

"Oh, no." He narrowed his eyes. "Does this mean you're going to start –"

"Holding you accountable when you're being an arse? Yes."

The sigh he let out could have leveled buildings. "Well, there goes any sense of enjoyment I glean from being around you."

"Har har," she said, though she was pretty sure he wasn't joking.

Then his lips quirked in amusement. "I do hope you've been reading up on Pure-Bloody-Genius, by the way."

"Of course I have," she said, sitting beside him. "What do you take me for? I hardly intend to go into an important meeting unprepared."

She had indeed done a significant amount of planning. If she could do this right, she would walk out of the meeting with a document drawn up stating that absolutely nothing had changed: that Pure-Bloody-Genius retained all its properties and subsidiaries, and that VoldeMart acquired nothing. The evening immediately after the meeting, December 29th, Hermione would leave for wherever Riddle's accounts were located, where she would destroy them. When she arrived back in Britain, she would have to get into the bathroom, hand over the documents to Dumbledore, and the game would be over.

That was the plan, anyway. If Riddle caught wind of the negotiation somehow … Hermione shuddered to think. He would release those photos and videos, destroy Elder's reputation. The other company would sink to the stock value of a cockroach, and VoldeMart would snap up its shares in a heartbeat.

Worse … if Lestrange woke up before December 29th …

Well, then she'd be dead.

He laid his hand on hers, and she nearly jumped off the bench.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

As she looked over at him, she felt rather sad at how easy it was to lie. "Nothing at all," she murmured. "Have you … just … have you heard anything more about Lestrange? I feel awful."

Riddle's features stiffened. "He still hasn't come out of it."

"Are you worried?"

"Worried? Worried about what? If he didn't want to be put into a goddamn coma, he shouldn't have tried to hurt you, the idiot." Riddle's voice was cold, hard, free of all sympathy. "How can you feel _awful_ about him?"

Hermione let out a slow sigh. "I know you're not worried about him. That would make too much sense, and you don't make any sense at all. I meant, are you worried you'll have to face legal action?"

He slouched down further in the chair, his lips pressing together. "Well, it shouldn't be difficult for me to get acquitted if I were confronted with a lawsuit, but I can't help but allow some concern about it to seep into my mind." He glanced up at her. "You know me rather well, don't you?"

Hermione's lips twitched in amusement. "Doesn't take much knowledge to recognize you're completely self-absorbed."

He sat up out of his slouch, a childish scowl on his face. "Self-absorption is prudent."

"Self-absorption is obnoxious."

"Well, I don't care _exclusively_ about myself." He looked at the wall opposite, slipping an arm around Hermione's shoulders.

"Oh, really?"

"Of course not. I care about the company's welfare."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, letting out an overdramatic sigh. "Oh, how romantic you are, Tom," she said, in the most girlish voice she could muster.

He looked down at her. "Quiet. You know I care about you, too."

It was all Hermione could do to keep from stiffening in his arms. The words had that quiet, understated ring of truth in them. That quality that said he was reluctant to let the words slip.

She moved closer instead. She could feel the warmth of him through his thin t-shirt, and for a minute she pondered how odd it was that he felt this human. Shouldn't murderers feel cold, send shivers up her back, repulse her? But the firm grip of his hand on her shoulder … and as he leaned closer, the touch of his breath on her cheek, the gentle brush of his lips against her jaw …

It took a while before she realized quite how hard her heart was beating.

_Stop it,_ she told herself. _What's wrong with you?_

But as they folded against each other – as her hands came to rest on his arms, as his thumbs drew fire over her hips, as she inhaled the harsh burning scent of him – her heart beat even harder. Until it hurt. Until it was forcing fire down her veins. "Tom," she whispered onto his lips, and she realized how much she loved the sound of his name.

"Hermione," he said back, and her heart quit altogether. A stunned silence in her chest at the impact of his voice saying _her_ name.

Oh hell.

_No,_ she said to herself. _You cannot let this happen. You can't._

Back when Viktor had taken her to the school ball, Ron had accused her of fraternizing with the enemy. And that was a flicked lighter compared to this bonfire, this inferno. This was wrong on a moral level. Tom Riddle stood for everything she hated. Tom Riddle had killed. Tom Riddle cared about no one and nothing but himself, and to care for him was a cruel masochism.

But Jesus, the way he'd said it – _you know I care about you._

He'd put a boy into a coma for her, which was hardly romantic, but it showed that he… if he would risk his flawless reputation to save her life…

_Did_ he care for her?

Hermione's perspective snapped all of a sudden, and she was looking outward in on herself. She was a seventeen-year-old girl in the arms of a seventeen-year-old boy, wondering whether he liked her. The mundaneness of it was comical. To anyone looking on, the problem would seem so frivolous.

But if he did feel something for her – and if she felt something for him – there was no frivolity. Everything would change.

Could she hurt someone she truly cared for? Could she go through with this, land him in prison for a lifetime for the murder of Myrtle?

If he were to change … _could_ he change? Could he be someone who could not kill, who cared about people rather than ideas, who saw emotions rather than motives? Was that too much to ask, to hope for? And did it even make a difference, really, given what he'd done?

They sat in the Great Hall in each other's arms. Hermione wondered what his arms would feel like if they were crushing the life from her like a vise, like the stranglehold of an anaconda.

"Would you like to go back to my room?" Tom said.

"All right. Sorry I'm so out of sorts – it's one of those afternoons," she sighed. "Will you help me study for Economics?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course I'll help you study, though you surely realize how asinine you're being."

"How accommodating of you."

"Don't remind me." He picked up her bag. "You owe me a significant amount of time wasted."

"Shall we go to the Den tonight, then, to make up for it?"

Tom looked down at her with a sudden frown. "I thought you were diametrically opposed to the notion."

"I resent being called a wet blanket, I suppose."

A smirk tugged at the edge of his lip. "Oh. That." He hoisted her bag higher on his shoulder. "Well, if a simple implication that you're no fun is all it takes to get you to stop all this pointless studying, perhaps I should indulge myself a little more often."

"Oh, sod off." She shoved him. He shoved her back.

They sort of chuckled together, and before they knew it, they were against each other's sides again, his arm around her waist. They fit perfectly, and though it was a mere physical technicality, Hermione couldn't help but notice. Couldn't help but feel that it was right for them to lock together like this.

"I like you, Hermione," Riddle said, as they walked up the Grand Staircase. "I think I'll keep you."

She snorted. "You grow more strange every day."

"I like having you more every day."

"I told you to stop all the sappy charming stuff; I told you that you don't need it –"

"I know I don't need it. Can't I say it anyway?" They stepped into the elevator, and he pressed her against the glass wall for a slow, deep kiss. When they stopped at the second floor, the door slid open, but he took his time lifting his lips from hers. Hermione breathed deeply, her mouth tingling.

She flicked the pin on his chest as they headed to his room. "I spoke with Dumbledore just now about helping the Kitchen staff."

"How very selfless of you."

"Oh, hush. I'm just trying to do what's right. Don't you care about the workers who make your every meal?"

"Should I?"

"Yes. Yes, you should." Hermione let out a disgusted sigh and opened her door, grabbing her bag from his shoulder and extracting her Economics notes. His apathy was so unattractive. "Come on, then, help me."

He gave a mocking bow and followed her into her room.

oOo

Hermione met Cygnus outside after dinner, in the shadow of the castle, where no one would possibly hear. "You need to go to Riddle's room tonight," she said. "While we're at the Den. I'll keep him busy from ten until midnight. That's enough time, isn't it?"

"More than." Cygnus shivered, sticking his hands in the pocket of his peacoat. "Just … make sure you can keep him occupied the entire time. I don't fancy intense physical pain to kick off the holidays."

"Of course," Hermione said. "What are you going to tell Mafalda?"

"Migraine. I get them every so often when I spend too much time around cigarettes and loud music. She's used to it by now – they get awful sometimes." Cygnus flicked his hair out of his eyes. "We'll show up at nine, I'll tell her I need to leave at ten. Sound good?"

"Yeah, perfect." She sighed. "Listen, Cygnus. I need you to book two tickets to wherever it is – one in your name, as well as the one for me. Just in case …"

"In case?"

"In case Lestrange wakes up. In case, you know." She glanced around at the melting snow. Its glare burned a painful afterimage into her retinas. "In case something happens to me."

"He wouldn't hurt you, would he?" Black said uneasily, but he didn't quite believe his own words. The scar on his chest seemed to flare a little even as he said it. "Besides, even if he were to hurt you, you could simply get an earlier flight, call a cab to Hogsmeade –"

"I don't mean he'd just _hurt_ me," Hermione said impatiently. "I mean he'd remove me as a factor completely."

The words felt odd coming out of her mouth, and her stomach lurched. She really was putting her life on the line for this. It would be so much easier to sit back, to let Riddle do what he wanted … so much safer.

But she could never live with herself if she did. She would fight against injustice to the last damn breath.

Cygnus looked stricken. "No," he said. "He wouldn't."

_You know I care about you, _he'd said...

Hermione bit back her doubts, something curdling in her stomach. She forced out the words. "He would get rid of me if he needed to. Trust me." Hermione looked into Cygnus's earnest blue eyes and felt almost guilty for disillusioning him. "Book two tickets."

And with that, she left him.

But good God, Hermione's bundled-up nerves made it hard to focus on her studies after that. So much so, she was practically relieved when Zara burst into her room, singing, "Let's get ready together!"

"All right," said Hermione.

Zara blinked. "Wait. That's it? I don't have to beg and plead? No bribery, no nepotism? What's the world coming to?"

Hermione gave her a look. "Just … get on with it."

"Oh my God. Does this mean I can do your hair, too?"

"… all right, _fine_," Hermione said, finally relenting. Zara had been begging Hermione to let her "fix" her hair for two months now.

The squeal Zara let out was ear-splitting. "Holy shit, let me go get Iris and Josiah. This is going to take an army."

Hermione let out a groan.

Riddle's voice came through the vent. "Was that squeaking noise Zara, or some sort of dying rodent?"

Hermione laughed. "She gets enthused."

"Clearly." A pause. "I'm interested to see what she'll do with your mane."

"Oh, hush," Hermione said. "Just because you have your hair perfect and moussed and gelled all the time, doesn't mean the rest of us have hair that's so cooperative."

"Your hair is just as uncooperative as the rest of you, then?"

Hermione scowled, though he couldn't see.

"Stop scowling at me," his voice said.

She looked up at the vent. "That … is a little uncanny."

"You're just painfully predictable, sweetheart."

"I thought I'd cured you of that _sweetheart_ nonsense."

"No such luck," he said, and there was a thinking sort of pause. When he next spoke, Hermione could hear the cocky smile in his voice. "Can't wait to get your hair messy again."

She blushed bright red. "Wh – _what_?"

"Just saying. I can think of all sorts of ways, none of which I need to describe, I'm sure."

"No, you most certainly do not –"

"Although it is lovely to picture throwing you on the bed and winding my hands into your hair –"

"Tom, stop –"

"Or sneaking into an empty classroom and leaning against the teacher's desk and –"

"_Tom –"_

"Or even just taking you on the dance floor and making you losing control, for once, your fingers tangled in your curls –"

"_Tom!_"

"All right, all right." He snickered. "Didn't realize my waxing poetic made you uncomfortable."

"That wasn't poetic_,_ it was crude_. _I bet you couldn't write poetry to save your life."

"I believe that's a challenge I hear. Accepted, Hermione. Accepted."

"And I suppose you'll be crafting an ode to your own brilliance."

"That does sound fun, now that you mention it. 'Of the Multitudinous Talents of Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr.,' by Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. …"

Hermione tried to stop herself from smiling, but she couldn't help it. "Absurd. You're absurd. I look forward to your attempt at poetry – I bet your sense of rhythm is absolutely deplorable."

"An unfounded and most untrue accusation."

Hermione frowned, struck by a thought. "You know, you used to talk a lot differently than you do now."

"How so?"

"You used to talk like a normal person. Now you always sound so formal."

"Oh. Well…" He trailed off. Hermione could practically see him raising one eyebrow. "I don't know. Some people grow less formal around people they're comfortable with. I'm simply the opposite."

A sharp knock on Hermione's door. Dread filled her to the fingertips.

Riddle chuckled. "Have fun. I'll be in the Den."

Hermione took a deep breath and let her friends in.

oOo

Riddle's steps felt bizarrely light as he headed down. His entire body hummed with energy, and he reveled in his own youth, his own power, his own virility. For seemingly the first time all year, all his plans were in actualization. When he entered the Den, he flashed a rare smile at Abraxas, who lounged on the sofa.

"How are you?" he said, taking a seat opposite Abraxas.

Abraxas' eyebrows rose. "Er. I'm … well, I suppose. And you?"

Riddle nodded in response. "Everything is proceeding swimmingly," he said, with what sounded like – as Abraxas noted with nothing less than stupefaction – a contented sigh.

Abraxas felt a little suspicious. Usually, when Riddle was satisfied, something unspeakably horrible was about to happen. If not to him, to someone, at least. Was he finally going to dispose of the Granger girl? They'd been spending so much damn time together – he must have gotten what he wanted by now.

Of course, Abraxas didn't presume to ask. Why put his own neck in danger to inquire about scum like that? He just eyed Riddle warily, letting the cool rush of nicotine flow through his lungs into his bloodstream.

"You actually look rather distressed," Riddle noted. "Something we need to discuss in private?"

"No, no, nothing. Just thinking about the holidays. Father's commissioned a yacht."

"Sounds rough," Riddle said drily.

"No, no, that wasn't my point. While we're in the Caribbean, we're leaving the estate under our live-in maid's care, which I think is just ridiculous."

Riddle yawned, his voice filled with unconcern. "Why's that?"

"What if she steals our things?" Abraxas said. Honestly, shouldn't Riddle have inferred that for himself?

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crossed Tom's face. "No need to make that assumption without prior indication that she'd be inclined to do so."

"She's a maid. Why would she _not_?"

"Look at it logically, Malfoy." Riddle rolled his eyes to heaven. "She'd be out of a job and a comfortable living space. You'd realize the objects were gone and recover them. There would be literally nothing to gain from that sort of foolishness."

"But …" Abraxas floundered for a second. Why was Riddle defending one of _their_ type? "Not like it hasn't happened before. They're all the same, you know."

"They're not _all the same_," Riddle hissed, so viciously that Abraxas froze in his seat.

A few people gave them wary glances, ever-ready to clear out at the smallest indication that Riddle might descend into one of his moods. Meanwhile, Abraxas sat there, his fingers digging pits in his knees. What the hell was Riddle on about? He'd seen his CEO in all sorts of capricious moods, and God knew it was impossible to tell what was going on inside his head – but this went counter to anything he could draw from Riddle's previous actions.

He raised his hands in submission. "All right," he said. "Cigarette?"

Riddle wrinkled his nose at the suggestion and didn't even respond.

_Wrinkled his nose!_

Abraxas stood, messing up his blond hair until it looked like he'd just emerged from a windstorm. Being around Tom Riddle was so stressful, it wasn't even worth it. "I'll be in the back," he sighed.

Riddle nodded, feeling a foul humor come over him. So much for his short-lived satisfaction. Why did he surround himself with people like Abraxas? Not that the boy wasn't bright, he just buried himself so deep in illogical assumptions it may as well not have mattered. And to think, he'd once considered appointing him his right-hand man. Even Black would have been a better choice, regardless of the fact that Riddle could never be sure of Black's motives … dating that Mafalda girl, and he hadn't even discussed it with Riddle beforehand, like it didn't matter who everyone on the Board associated with …

Of course, Riddle mused, he was one to talk, being with Hermione. Now that he could finally trust her, though, it was hardly an issue.

_All the same …_ honestly. Hermione was not _the same_ as any filthy low-class trash. How dare Malfoy even suggest it? Riddle had half a mind to demand a groveling apology.

The door opened. Iris, Josiah, Zara, and Mafalda walked in.

Then Hermione.

Something strange happened in Riddle's chest. They'd done _something_ to her face. Not being acquainted with such things as makeup, he couldn't be sure, but her eyes looked dark and smoky and bizarrely seductive, her plain collection of features synced into some strange angular concoction. She did not look put-together or neat or pretty. She looked electric. She looked magnetic_. _And her hair lay in ringlets over her shoulders, glimmering.

She wore a normal ensemble – apparently the other girls' coercion had not gone so far as to dress Hermione like Zara. But Riddle couldn't focus on anything but her face, and the look in her eyes as they locked gazes. He knew she could see the shock on his face, the harsh entranced fascination that rang through his bones.

Riddle realized he hated what they'd done to her.

This was not Hermione Granger. How dare they change the plain, bookish, brainy girl he knew? How dare they presume they knew what was better for her looks than she did? How dare they emphasize the physical when that was _not_ what was important about her – _not _what made her attractive?

Sudden anger flared in Riddle's chest. He crossed the room to join the group of girls, who had migrated to the drinks table.

"How do you like your girlfriend's makeover, then?" Iris said, knocking Riddle with her shoulder. He pursed his lips, unimpressed by her jostling him. What, did she think because they'd slept together they were friends?

"I think I rather preferred her the way she was," he said stiffly.

Hermione smiled, contorting her makeup mask. "That makes two of us. Honestly, this is such a hassle – I can't believe some people do this every day."

"No one does this every day," Zara said, rolling her eyes. "It's just for fun. Lighten up, you two. Bookworms, for goodness' sakes…"

"Your hair must feel nice, though," said Josiah, brushing one of the curls with her index finger. "I bet it never gets this kind of treatment."

"Well, yes," Hermione said. "The hair is all right. But all this kohl on my eyes makes me feel like a raccoon with a poor disguise."

Mafalda laughed. "I'll leave you to complain, then. Off to find Cyg."

"Don't dance like _too_ much of a slag," Zara called after her, and Mafalda shot a rude gesture back.

"Ah, friendship," Hermione muttered. Before she knew it, Iris's fingers had locked around her forearm, and she was being dragged toward the back room. Its open door gaped like a dragon's mouth, waiting to devour her.

"N – no," Hermione said, struggling. "Stop, Iris, I don't want to –"

"Good Lord, Hermione," Iris said. "I would sello-tape your mouth shut, but I'd ruin the lipstick I so stakingly applied."

"Stakingly?"

"Painstakingly," Josiah translated, catching up. "Here, have a drink."

Hermione swatted away the Solo cup, glancing back for Tom, who had been cut off by an irritatingly loud gaggle of fourth years. "_No_. I am drawing the line at illegal activity."

"Fine, fine," Iris said, and tugged harder on her arm. "But you're dancing with us. I insist."

"Why don't you just find Nick and force him into dancing with you?"

"He's running the Raven Club party. They're playing Trivial Pursuit or some rubbish like that, and they're listening to Modest Mouse –"

"That actually sounds significantly more enjoyable than –"

But it was too late. They sank into the depths of the room, the bass echoing, pounding, swallowing Hermione in its pulse. A strobe light painted silhouettes around her, while skinny spiraling lasers outlined the high stone ceiling. As Iris's hand fell from her arm, Hermione stared back over her shoulder – where had Tom gone? He'd looked quite disturbed by her transformation; did he really like the way she looked normally better? That seemed like a bit of a stretch. She had to admit that her features looked more aligned with the makeup to balance them out, and alignment, biologically, would be inherently more appealing to the eye – why did she even care? –

Hermione subtly checked the glowing clock on the wall. Nine fifteen. Jesus. She shouldn't have signed up for this much stalling.

A hand on her waist. Hermione turned back around – Tom had appeared in front of her. He looked supremely apathetic next to all the wildly gyrating dancers, the very picture of reassurance in an uncomfortable situation.

He leaned in and spoke into her ear. It was low, intimate - the only thing intimate about the setting. "I wasn't joking. I think your normal appearance suits you far better."

"Erm. Really?" she said, yet again entertaining the notion that he could read minds.

"Absolutely." The word was all but whisked away by the chaos. "You don't need any of this nonsense you've got on. Their focus on 'fixing' the way you look is utterly revolting. So puerile."

A warm spot lit in Hermione's stomach. Buried in the darkness like this, invigorated by the jolt of confidence his words sent through her, she felt daring. Her hand slipped into his back pocket and rested there. He let out a low, satisfied noise, a noise so sensual she could've sworn her hair frizzed a little in shock. As his arms locked tight against her waist, pulling her flush to him, she shut her eyes and listened to the mediocre music with only slight reluctance.

_We found love in a hopeless place._

The chorus of adolescent voices shouting it out.

_We found love in a hopeless place…_

Sometimes the simplest things could wear quite a convincing veneer of profundity.

They swayed together. Anyone watching might have called them off-beat, but it would have been an observation quite misconstrued. The two were attuned to another rhythm entirely, the rhythm of his words lost upon her ears, the rhythm of the lowering of his eyelashes and the crease in his brow, the rhythm of the tightening of her fingers against the worn edges of his denim pockets.

All doubt fled from both of their minds. As their feet moved in calm unison, they were, for the first time, equally self-conscious. They became deeply aware of the emotions twisted in their hearts, and for once it was not about goals, motives, purposes. They were forced to direct confrontation of the emotion they'd developed, and they confronted it for emotion's sake, for their own peace of mind.

Neither of them knew what to do.

All each knew was that the other's hands were holding them in place.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione breathed against his chest, because she knew he would not hear the words, and she knew she would never get the chance to say them again.

oOo

Cygnus grimaced and stumbled out of the dance.

Mafalda's arm gripped his shoulder. "Migraine?"

"Yeah, that."

"Need to leave?"

He squinted at her round, concerned face through the darkness. "You're going to make me anyway, so I'll just go quietly. But you should stay."

"No, if you're going –"

"This is going to be a bad one," he said. "Stay here. Have fun. Better than silently watching me rock back and forth in agony."

"Maybe a little," Mafalda said, grinning. "Just get a good sleep, yeah? You've got Evolution tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, at least that's not that bad an exam." Mafalda considered for a second. "Okay. Go. Before I follow you out."

"Love you," he murmured, and placed a quick kiss on her lips. She tucked his hair behind his ear, pulled him in quickly, and nipped his bottom lip. He jumped a little, leaning back to see a sly smile break on her face.

"Love you too," she said. "Feel better – go on, then."

He headed out.

An hour and a half later, two flights were booked for Zurich on the night of December 29th, paid for in full by Cygnus Black.

oOo

They went upstairs as if shellshocked, gripping to each other like slackened fingers would mean a hold lost forever. Hermione had kept him from the table of drinks, had forced him away from Yaxley's dealing corner, and the effort it had taken had been tremendous. And she felt as if she'd staggered out of a battlefield, after that dance room.

As for Tom, he was still reeling from the terrifying, uncomfortable realization that he could not quite remember himself before Hermione. He couldn't remember how he'd spent the afternoons, how he'd spent class time, how he'd spent patrol. He supposed he must have been quite industrious, but it wasn't as if his productivity levels had dipped. On the contrary – he was issuing orders with more efficiency and more yield than ever before. Her presence empowered him, rather than crippling him, which didn't seem logical, given his previous assumption that love was a hindrance.

Was it possible that he loved her too, in a way?

As they entered the bathroom to take Hermione's makeup off, Tom pointedly ignored his question, crushing it down inside him until it was only the tiniest squeak of curiosity. How imprudent love was, how foolhardy. To place all one's trust in one person like that, to give them so much power. No – he could not relinquish that much power.

But at the same time … imagining her leaving him ached, and that meant she _did_ have power. He knew through the Lestrange debacle that she had the ability to make him act reckless. She could soothe him when he was agitated, rectify the situation when he was hopelessly bored, and not a thing came out of her mouth that he wouldn't entertain, simply because he had immense respect for her.

He supposed it was misogynistic to be so surprised that he had this much respect for a girl.

That wasn't right, was it, though? He didn't respect many people at all, male or female. The fact that she was a girl was mere coincidence.

But some things were not mere coincidence: the gentle pain in the center of his chest as he took a warm, damp towel and wiped her face clean, drinking in the bliss of her expression; the seeming inability he had to remove his eyes from hers at this moment. At many moments, actually. She had sunk her hold deep into him, this stubborn girl with too many words to be convenient and too many opinions to be complaisant. He coveted her like the most precious of jewels.

And of jewels, she was an unexpected diamond. Out of all the people at this school, she _shone_. And how bizarre that it was her, a girl raised as destitute as he, a girl who signified – and, yet, simultaneously challenged his every generalization about – all he detested.

Tom tossed the towel down the chute, leaning against the wall. "I'm exhausted," he mumbled.

"Takes so much energy just to be down there," Hermione said, getting to her feet with a groan. They headed back down the hall to their rooms.

Hermione sighed. She didn't want to tell him goodnight. She wanted his lips on hers again. She needed to sleep, but she wanted desperately to stay awake to speak with him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on, but for the life of her, she couldn't understand _why_ she'd fallen for him. From all reasonable perspectives, it made no sense. From all reasonable perspectives, this was dangerous.

"Sleep with me?" Tom said quietly.

"… erm … sorry?"

"Not like that. I just …" He shrugged. "Would like to hold onto you."

"Oh. Erm," Hermione said lamely. "I … of course. Let me change."

He nodded once and retreated into his room, stiff-backed and ill-at-ease. He hadn't wanted to ask her that. It had just slipped out of its own volition. Why was he getting so sloppy?

Was it all right to be sloppy around her? Just to say what he wanted, to let his mind roam unfiltered? She'd said she wasn't going anywhere, even with the knowledge of how cruel he could be… knowing his methods of operation …

Not that she had full knowledge.

Maybe he should just tell her what he'd done. Then he could stop all this pointless theorizing about what she'd do if she found out.

He shook his head in disgust as he changed into his flannel nightclothes. She had no sense of self-preservation. He almost wanted to tell her to get away, tell her to find a more sensible choice, someone harmless and vapid – like one of the potheads from Huff'n'Puff, or perhaps a nice pretentious Raven Club-ite.

Of course, the idea of Hermione Granger settling for options like that? Repulsive. He would never allow her to settle. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, he needed the challenge, too. He needed a mind that could counter his, or hell, his brain would go slack.

Not so long ago, he would have preferred the idea of having no companions at all. Going it alone, with others an unfortunate necessity.

Now, he rather preferred the notion of company.

But only if it was hers.

She slipped into his room, wearing loose black sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. They fell into bed, huddled under the covers, and drifted away into sleep, entangled in a cocoon of midwinter warmth. All without even a word.

The air of contentment spoke for itself.

x

x

x

* * *

**"You say love is in the numbers **

**Well, I guess you could be right**

**There are a million stars in the sky tonight."**

**-S.1., by the Speechwriters LLC**

* * *

**Leave a message at the beep.**

**BEEEEEEEEEEEEP**

**Thanks for reading!**

**s.w.**


	17. AzkaBank of America

**WOOHOO FOR THE UNDERSIGNED**

**Silverandgold12294, fanficftw23, briseis, sophie, Molly Dooker, Loren, OrchidsAndVines (understandable! this one is more about the power play than the romance so it makes sense that the gush doesn't fall into place as well as Tied For Last for some), Shubhs, BennyGz, kcluvssugar, SexySpectrum, solussword, NS, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, BlackShirt16, XMoonglowX, XxTaintedxDaggerxX, mexicantt, Ilovepi, Jman12394, LionRawrr, moor, SamarKanda, Cellar, StinkySummerSox, Gladioli, and lania26d!**

**I wub you.**

**I think this story has two, maybe three, perhaps four chapters left. So stoked to share the finale with you guys!**

**Speechwriter**

**oOo**

**"You know the parlor trick.  
wrap your arms around your own body  
and from the back it looks like  
someone is embracing you  
her hands grasping your shirt  
her fingernails teasing your neck  
from the front it is another story  
you never looked so alone  
your crossed elbows and screwy grin  
you could be waiting for a tailor  
to fit you with a straight jacket  
one that would hold you really tight****."**

**-"Embrace", by Billy Collins**

**oOo**

* * *

"Christmas," Hermione declared.

"What?"

"What do you want for it?"

"Oh, don't bother," he sighed. "I can just order Abraxas to get me whatever I want."

"I suppose you're not acquainted with the notion of Christmas spirit, then?"

He shrugged. "Exams just finished, it's the first day of break … it would take so much effort to be _spirited._ Can't you give me one day of respite from your constant badgering?"

"A whole day? Do you know what you can accomplish in twenty-four hours? Think of all that wasted time."

He stood, stretching. "Oh, I know, I know." Every twenty-four hours, he earned roughly eight million dollars. Nothing to sniff at, a 24-hour block of time.

"Seriously, though." Hermione flopped onto the bed, snapping her book shut. "What sort of thing would you like? I have six days – if I'm going to order something over the internet and not have to pay exorbitant shipping –"

"You're not paying for anything for me," Tom said.

"Excuse me?" She raised an eyebrow. "I've got quite enough to get my boyfriend a nice Christmas gift, thank you."

"Don't be defensive. Nothing against you – the point of Christmas has simply never been clear to me. It's an arbitrary date picked to heighten commercialism."

She looked unimpressed. "… heighten … commercialism. And you're ... _discouraging_ me from supporting this holiday. You, the CEO of VoldeMart, whose holiday campaign has spewed for the last two months – and I quote – 'Give them the joy of Christmas with a gift card! Buy more, save morsmordre!'" Hermione wrinkled her nose. "What does that even mean, anyway, _Morsmordre_? If that's from the Latin, you've got _death_ and _bite. _Hardly the spitting image of customer satisfaction."

"It's … an old family motto."

"It sounds like someone retching."

Tom leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile playing across his lips. "I'm instructing you not to purchase anything for this idiotic holiday because obviously, the most profitable course of action is to sit there, let less intelligent people squander their money, and reap the benefits."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Look, I'm going to get you something whether you like it or not."

"Your gift to me can be not wasting your money."

"Goodness, but you _are_ feeling stubborn today. What's the occasion?"

"There's no occasion. That's the point. _Christmas_ is not an occasion, it's a circumstance."

"I assume you're an atheist, then?"

"Agnostic."

"Oh, it's the same thi –"

"It is _not_ the same thing," Tom said. "I've had to outline this to Abraxas God knows how many times. I'd expect more from you, Hermione."

"I was being ironic!"

"It doesn't work on you," he said flatly. "You need to wear more plaid and get thick-rimmed glasses to get away with irony."

"I wonder what you'd do if I threw this book at your head," Hermione mused.

He pulled out his lighter, turning it over slowly as if considering. "Probably light you on fire."

"I'm sure. But I don't appreciate the threat."

He raised his hands in defense and let the lighter drop on his desk.

She frowned. "Actually, speaking of your disturbingly violent tendencies, any word on Lestrange?"

"Must you ask every half-hour?"

"Oh, excuse me for my concern about the well-being of someone you decided to maim on my behalf."

Riddle stood. "Let's visit Huff'n'Puff."

"Yes, all right, change the subject. Fine."

"Haven't heard anything new about Aquilus. Now let's go to the Huff'n'Puff building."

"Why? It's freezing cold out."

Tom flashed a grin and ushered her out the door. "I need to talk to someone. Don't worry, I'll keep you warm."

"How, magic?" she scoffed.

"By sheer force of will."

Hermione sighed and shoved her hands in her pockets. "Lord, I miss Mafalda and Zara. And Iris and Josiah. And Nick and Trent. And Harry and –"

"Virtually anyone who isn't me, apparently."

"Let's be honest here, you can get a bit suffocating. And you keep nagging me about the meeting when we've done nothing for the past three days but go over and over the figures, the evidence, how I should present myself – you've just got to _trust_ me, Tom." Hermione found herself hating the words. Hating her lies, hating her own request that he fully endorse his own demise.

"I do trust you," he said quietly, meeting her eyes.

Guilt slammed into her. She hadn't expected him to just _agree_ like that.

She released an exasperated sigh and snatched the pencil from behind his ear. "All right, well, then look. I'm going to draw up an official truce. I will drop the issue of what you want for Christmas if you agree to cease this …" Hermione waved a hand. "Helicoptering."

"Is that a word?"

"Yes. Yes, it is. Deal?"

He shrugged, looking faintly amused. "You are so easily aggravated."

"Excellent. Deal." Hermione pulled a sheet of paper out of her omnipresent bag and pressed it against the stone wall to write. "Whereas Tom Riddle worries far too much about circumstances beyond his control –"

"_I_ worry too much? _Me?_"

" – and whereas he refuses to recognize the benefits of a cheerful holiday attitude –"

"This is sounding awfully biased."

" – we the undersigned do hereby agree to discuss neither That One Meeting With That One CEO nor That One Holiday." Hermione scribbled her signature and handed him the paper.

"This is illegible."

"I just read it aloud, so does it really matter?"

"Well, when you bring your contract to the meeting, I hope Elder – I mean… _You-Know-Who _will at least be able to read the damn thing." Riddle signed his name with an elegant flourish.

"Oh, really. Just substituting his name for _You-Know-Who _doesn't qualify as not mentioning the man."

"All right, _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_, then –"

"Regardless of the absurd nickname you elect, it still doesn't count."

Riddle gave an eyeroll of supreme disdain and rolled up the contract. "Let's go, then."

"Would you stop ordering me around, Head Boy?" Hermione flicked the badge on his chest, and he clutched it, looking comically aghast.

"Watch it," he said.

"Your most prized possession?" she teased.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Hermione laughed as they headed down the hall.

"You laugh at me a lot," he said. "I'm … not entirely sure how to react."

"It's only to compensate for the fact that you take everything as seriously as an elegy."

Riddle's lips twitched, and he straightened his Head Boy pin with the utmost care. "Why do you want to get me a Christmas present, by the way?"

"So much for agreeing not to talk about this."

He shrugged. "Answer me."

"I love giving presents. There's nothing more satisfying than the look on someone's face when you show them you know exactly what they'll enjoy."

"Doesn't it defeat the purpose, then, to ask me what I want?"

"I wasn't expecting something specific." Hermione hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder. "Look, just forget about it. I'll come up with something."

"If you insist. But don't expect a gift in return."

"Did I say I was expecting anything from you?" she said acidly.

He raised one eyebrow. "All right. Just making sure your expectations are realistic." His eyes brushed over her bag, and he lifted it from her shoulder without asking.

Relieved from the weight, Hermione straightened up with faint surprise. "Thank you."

"Constantly amazes me that someone of your stature can carry this for any sustained period of time," he grumbled, resting it on his own shoulder.

Hermione shrugged. "Long years of practice."

After a brief pause, she flicked his Head Boy pin again. He swatted at her, and she darted out of the way, laughing.

More and more, she found herself forgetting her own ulterior motive. And now that exams had finished, she could no longer distract herself from it.

Ten days until the grand deception, and with every minute they spent together, she felt more and more uneasy.

Yes; Hermione Granger was starting to panic.

They headed down the Grand Staircase and out the door, and Riddle wrapped his coat around her. "Why aren't you staying with your mum or dad, by the way?" he asked. "For the hols?"

"Mum offered, but it was a little half-hearted. She's loaded down with work – I know she doesn't need the hassle of finding me someplace to stay outside her tiny apartment. As for Dad…" Hermione looked down at her feet and hunched up under her jacket.

Riddle frowned a little, examining her face. He'd never seen that expression, and he wasn't sure how to interpret it. Was it appropriate to probe further, with that weary sort of pain tipping him off that something was deeply wrong? Did he even want to entangle himself with her problems?

A bigger question was why the upset look on her face upset _him_.

She seemed so concrete, so iron, a lot of the time. Of course, she would get frustrated or angry or indignant on an hourly basis – but to show weakness like this, even in a moderate quantity, was something she hadn't done since … well, since months ago. Since that day she'd staggered out by the dumpsters and he'd given her something for her headache.

"What's wrong?" he said. The words came out sharper, more demanding, than he'd intended. He'd been going for a tone of concern, but strangely enough, the fact that he actually _was_ concerned had distorted the words.

Hermione looked up at him and sighed. "I suppose you'd understand familial problems, but … this is odd for me to speak about." She frowned lightly. "My father's met a woman, and she's moving in with him over this holiday. I just found out yesterday, so I'm still … getting used to the idea, I suppose. I don't really want to meet her. It's an altogether uncomfortable situation, to be perfectly honest. So ... abrupt." She slipped her hands into the fleecy jacket pockets, letting the wind brush her frizzy hair across her face. "How did you do it, Tom?"

"Do what?"

"Grow up without parents."

Riddle was quiet for a long time. He was tempted to cull the conversation before it could advance past germination. On the scale of taboo subjects, his parents were the equivalent of a nine out of ten, and to speak with even Hermione about that … unfathomable.

"Don't want to talk about it?" she said. "I … never mind, forget it."

But the quiet pain in her expression yanked the words from his resisting vocal cords. "I don't mind so much," Tom said, so softly the cushion of snow practically swallowed his voice. "Having grown up without. I don't."

They stopped in the small covered area in front of the Huff'n'Puff building, sat on a stone bench, and stared at their hands folded in their laps. "Don't mind?" Hermione repeated. "I don't understand."

"I value independence." Riddle shook his head. "A parental figure and I would not have cooperated."

"Are you sure you don't value independence simply because you had to learn to fend for yourself?"

"A possibility, I suppose." He considered for a second. "Either could be causal, the other reactive, but they're two very different perspectives. I believe in the force of human nature. I believe I was destined to be who I am now, and anything that got in my way would have been …" Riddle's fingers locked tighter against each other, obliterating the cushion of air between his palms.

"I disagree," Hermione said softly. "I think we all have the power to change. Some marks are indelible, but I think anyone could change their track, if provided the right outside influence."

"What an uncharacteristically wishy-washy position for you to take."

"Far from it. I'm simply saying that societal and interpersonal force – empathetic, sympathetic and emotional pressures – all have great weight on our decisions, on who we choose to be." Hermione realized her mouth was dry as she rested her hand on his. He looked at her, and she saw in his gaze cool calculation; fascination; curiosity. An ardent desire to absorb and incorporate her perspective into his worldview. "I think you do care," she whispered. "I think you care a great deal. About your father's abandonment. About your mother's death."

The reaction in his face startled and disturbed her. A shock of violent rage, suppressed by a wave of piercing doubt, and a final flicker of pain. Then nothing.

"I couldn't care less about my father," he said.

"Yes, you could. You hate him." Hermione shook her head, her brow creasing in sympathy. "You hate him so much it hurts to even think about him. You hate him so much you would do anything to forget what he's done to you, to your mother." She eyed him shrewdly. "And you're terrified by what your mother went through. Pain, and death, and loneliness. You'd rather the solitude be self-inflicted, so no one can ever force it upon you."

A long ache of a silence.

"Are you done with your psychoanalysis?" he murmured.

"Am I right?"

He did not reply.

"Then yes," she said. "Yes, I'm done, and Tom, I'd like you to know that we're all afraid of the same things you're afraid of. Being hurt and forgotten by someone. It scares me, too."

Riddle's eyes burned suddenly, feverish with dark fanatic conviction. "I will never hurt you. I will _never_ forget you."

Hermione thought she might cry.

"That isn't the point," she whispered. "I just want you to know you're not alone."

"Oh, but I am," he said, the drive dying from his gaze. "I've been quite alone for seventeen years."

"You're not anymore." She laced her fingers through his. Their chapped, dry skin rubbed smoothly, like silk. "I know what it feels like. I know _you_."

It was a long time before they went inside.

They let the chilly air press in. She kept him warm by sheer force of will.

oOo

Evening, Christmas Eve. Tom started to bite his thumbnail, but caught himself before going through with the act. He scowled – all Hermione's bad habits were rubbing off on him. Next thing he knew, he would be losing his temper every other second and attempting to lecture everyone within a mile.

This was bad. Tom knew she had unlocked some cage within him, freed an obsessive desire to keep her safe and close. Coming to the realization had been hard enough, and now that he knew it, he wasn't quite sure what course of action to take. Surely it was only a matter of time before she found out something – anything – that destroyed her bizarrely positive regard of him.

And then he would be alone again. The lone pillar of VoldeMart, left to rot in stifling isolation.

He shook his head and straightened in his seat. Surely he would be all right after she abandoned him. It would take some catharsis, but he would move on. The important part was the deal on the 29th … not the girl. The important part was having a scapegoat for the illegal actions if they were ever uncovered – not the girl.

She was thoroughly unimportant.

Tom cursed aloud and threw down his pen. If she was so goddamned unimportant, why did he spend every waking second wearing his nerves thin over her? Whether it was that business about her good-for-nothing father, or the fact that she was so worried about Lestrange, the shithead – her thoughts seemed to invade his mind. Constantly. And he'd done all this bloody business for her Christmas gift, when he didn't even believe in Christmas.

He stood up, rolled a joint, and lit it. He needed some relaxation, and at this point, he couldn't care less whether she smelled the pot or not.

To his delight, thoughts of Hermione faded as his mind went blissfully weightless. He moved to his bed, stared at the ceiling, and philosophized aloud to himself. A perfect escape, a perfect release.

"Maybe," he murmured, cupping the word in his hand. "Maybe I shall get away while I can."

oOo

"So it's not … not a serious _thing_, is it?"

"Is that any of your business, Ron?" Hermione stared up at the night sky in disbelief. After all she'd just reported to him, her relationship with Tom was what he chose to comment on? Was he _trying_ to bring up their painful emotional past?

"It bloody well is my business. You know what he stands for."

"Yes. I know. And I don't appreciate the insinuation that I don't have my priorities in order." Hermione shook the cell phone, as if that would clear up the reception. "Honestly," she muttered under her breath, "this phone is even worse than the last one."

"Well, you might not have to worry about that after tomorrow." Hermione could hear the grin in Ron's voice, and her eyes narrowed.

"Did you just ruin what you're getting me for Christmas? You know I hate it when you spoil surprises."

"Sorry, sorry," Ron said. "Here's Harry."

"Hermione!" Harry's voice said. "Why are you not at Ron's? He won't tell me why you said no to staying for the holidays."

"Are you around people?"

"No, just Ron."

Hermione chuckled. "All right, well." She hunkered down at the edge of the starlit lake, pulling Tom's coat tighter around her. She felt uncomfortable wearing it around casually like this, but it warmed her more effectively than anything of hers. "I've managed to worm my way into Riddle's good books enough that he's sending me to a business meeting. It's on the 29th."

"Damn."

"I know."

"What's your plan?"

"I don't … well, here's the thing. There's a vault here at school I've got to get into, but I don't know how. It has this USB plug, and I've searched Tom's room a thousand times – and the rooms of everyone he's friends with – and _nothing_."

"One moment, let me put you on speakerphone," Harry said. "All right, repeat that for Ron."

Hermione sighed and obliged. "The thing is," she continued, "if he's not keeping it in his room or a friend's room, there's an equal chance of it being anywhere in the entire damn castle."

"You could go to Dumbledore," Ron said.

"I want to. I really do. But I think he would take matters into his own hands, and I have a couple … I have some …" Hermione's voice faltered. "It just…"

She didn't want Dumbledore to hurt Tom.

How absurd. She didn't want a benign, Nobel Prize-winning professor to _hurt_ the leader of a corrupt company, the torturer of other teenagers, the manipulative engineer of endless economic woes. She didn't know if she could possibly feel anything more irrational.

And yet there it was. Tugging at her. _Don't let him get hurt even more,_ it said, as if Tom was some sort of victim who needed protection. As if he wasn't brilliant and cold-hearted and perfectly capable of fending for himself.

He _was_ completely at her mercy, though.

How many years in prison would he spend?

She pictured him emerging from the gray walls of a jail at the age of forty, embittered and worn. She pictured him getting dragged in, a mere month from now, after she'd practically promised not to abandon him. Why had she let herself have that conversation? Why had she made this so much more difficult for herself than it already was?

"Hermione," Ron said, "if he finds out about this, come straight back to London. We'll make sure you're safe."

"If something like that happens, then … yes, I'll definitely try and get a cab from Hogsmeade, but with the amount of snow we've been getting…" Hermione shook her head. "Look, I'll be fine, Ron. He won't find out. It's only five days from now, and Lestrange doesn't look like he's going to wake up. Which is a whole other issue." She bit her lip. The Lestrange family obviously wouldn't raise a lawsuit against Tom, at risk of their superior taking disciplinary corporate action. But the real problem was a moral issue. Would Lestrange's death toll be tacked onto Tom's kill list?

"Have your presents arrived yet, by the way?" asked Harry. "We got yours this morning."

"You haven't opened them, have you?" Hermione demanded.

"Course not." Ron sounded supremely affronted. "What do you think we are?"

"Good. Just making sure."

"Ten quid says they're books, anyway," Ron mumbled.

"They're not." Hermione had long since given up on getting books for her best friends after she'd found one of her gifts to Harry – a copy of Hawking's Brief History of Time – being used to prop open a door. This year she'd bought Ron a Manchester United jersey – that is, one of the few he didn't already own – and she'd got Harry a dangling rear-view mirror ornament for his flashy Cadillac Firebolt. Neither was nearly as practical as she would have liked a gift to be, but there you were.

Two hours left until Christmas Day, and she still had no idea what to get Tom. At this point, it would have to be something from Hogsmeade – nothing else could ship quickly enough.

"I know you'll think of where the USB is, Hermione," Harry said, his voice reassuring. "You think of everything. It's probably right under your nose."

"I'll bet," she muttered. "And when I think of it, I'm going to feel like an idiot."

"That'll be the day," Ron scoffed. "You could never be an idiot."

Hermione begged to differ. She'd already made the most idiotic step of all – letting herself get emotionally tangled in this entire ordeal. "Thanks, Ron," she said tiredly. "I'll talk to you both tomorrow, yeah?"

"All right. Happy Christmas, Hermione."

"Happy Christmas."

They hung up, and Hermione tucked her phone back into her pocket, zipping it up. Then she headed back to the castle, yawning. It was past ten now – she should get to bed.

But she couldn't stop thinking. Hers was a choice no one should have had to make. If she ruined the company, she would never see him again. She would be dead to him. But if she let the chance slip by to destroy VoldeMart, her self-respect would be destroyed. Either way, she would lose something she cared about.

Or someone.

For the first time, Hermione felt as if she should have taken the escape route while it had still been an option – safe and comfortable apathy.

And the mere inclination disgusted her. Apathy was the worst of sins.

Hermione strode toward her room, but stopped halfway down the hall, wrinkling her nose. Was that classical music wafting down the hall? And that sickly sweet smell – was he – ?

She opened his door and stared up at the haze gathered around the ceiling lamp as some whirling Liszt melody floated around her ears. It was freezing inside – he'd opened the window wide. "_Tom._"

"Yes?"

"Are you _serious_? You're really sitting right in front of me getting high? Getting high to _Schubert?_"

He hit the pause button on Abraxas's borrowed iPod dock, letting a puff of smoke fly between his lips. "It's Liszt. Get your facts straight, Brainger Granger -"

"Oh, for heavens' sake, give me that." She stormed to his bedside, snatched the joint from his fingers, and flung it out the window into the night.

"What the... what the fuck, what the _fuck_?" he said, getting to his feet. "You are evil. What's the matter with you?"

She stepped back as she smelled his breath, which was laden with the bitter scent of alcohol. "You're going to destroy your body completely. Stop it. _Stop all this_." Rage made her fingers numb as she grabbed the chilly bottle of wine sitting on his desk. "I swear I will – I will take this to Dumbledore!"

"Who shoved the stick up your arse?" Tom snapped, grabbing the bottle out of her hand. "Just sit down, would you?" He swayed dangerously, his cheeks tinged red.

"You're drunk," she said. "You're the one who should be sitting down."

Then he lit a cigarette, and she froze in place, her every muscle constricting in utter fury.

He blew smoke in her face. She snapped.

"WILL YOU STOP IT?" she yelled, rage lifting her to her tiptoes. "I KNOW YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR OWN WELL-BEING BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU'RE IMMORTAL, BUT YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF, AND I CARE!"

His lips tightened around the cigarette, and he surveyed her calmly. "No, you don't."

"I – _what_? How the hell do you know who I do or don't care about –"

"You wouldn't care, if … I …" he mumbled, and he put a hand on her shoulder. Maybe to steady himself. Maybe to stop her from running when she heard. He wasn't really sure at this point, but he leaned in and whispered into her ear regardless. "You won't care. After."

The touch of his breath repulsed Hermione. He shouldn't be anywhere near her in this state. This was not the boy she cared about. This was a mindless addict, a slave to his own destruction.

And then he breathed the confession.

"I killed Myrtle. I killed my father. I killed my grandparents."

His lips lingered by her ear for a long minute. When he finally pulled away – when he let go of her shoulder – she felt like she might fall. And he took a step back, spreading his arms wide. His eyes glinted with insane light. "Take a good look," he said, with a mocking, unsteady bow. "Feast your eyes on Hogwarts' one and only Head Boy, valedictorian, mass-murderer."

Hermione stood stock still, her mind numb and racing and getting nowhere with all its tangled thoughts. "Your grandparents," she whispered. "Your _father…?_"

"He deserved it. He deserved everything."

"You … what did your grandparents do to deserve it? What did Myrtle ever do?"

His eyes shut, and he sat down hard on the bed. "Myrtle wasn't … she shouldn't have … but my grandparents, filthy, worthless beggars –"

Tom cracked his eyes back open and looked at Hermione. She was pale and flustered, her expression aghast.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words half-slurred. "No, not sorry. I … I'm not sorry for what I did to them. I'm sorry you're good as gone now. I'm sorry you care about people you don't even know, people who were as low-down and rotten as anyone – people who were just as – where do you think I got my arrogance, Hermione? Them. My goddamn father, assuming he was superior to the crazy rich girl he thought my mother was, just because he was _handsome_ and _smart_, like anyone can't be _handsome _and _smart_ – and my grandparents, they helped him turn her out on the street when she was eight months pregnant, the fucking _animals_ –"

The wine bottle slipped from his fingers and smashed on his bedroom floor. The deep red liquid pooled around his leather shoes.

His eyes turned down to watch, and his mouth closed. He sat catatonic, unmoving. He emanated waves of fury and frustration and conflict, but he stayed silent.

_Oh, Tom. _Hermione closed her eyes and forced herself to think. _Why did you tell me?_

She walked around the bed and sat on the opposite side. Her knees creaked in protest at the motion. Her fingers wove together loosely.

What did this prove? Honestly, the murder of his father had been less despicable than that of Myrtle. His miserable childhood had driven him to the former, but his narcissistic ambition had been the only catalyst for the latter. This – it hardly changed anything; she'd known he was a killer.

And yet she knew things had changed. He had murdered _four times_. Lestrange's life hung in the balance, threatening to tip the scale to five.

God, and he'd hurt Lestrange for her.

Had he ever hurt someone on another person's behalf before?

Did it mean he could be fixed?

_No. It doesn't matter._ No matter how repulsed she might have been – no matter how torn, how anxious – It was time to finish the plan. Time to convince him once and for all that she was his...

Hermione turned. His head was bowed, facing away from her.

She lightly pressed her lips to the back of his neck. "I'm here," she whispered, trying to keep the ache from her voice. She wanted to hold him, to console him, to tell him she would always be here to try and help him.

But she didn't want to lie anymore.

God, she wanted to let the truth rush out like a waterfall.

He lowered the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the trash. Hermione considered admonishing him for it, but then he turned to her and kissed her, and at the yearning in his touch, everything else fled her mind.

"Tom," she murmured against his lips. He tasted awful, all sickly sweet and bitter burn and drugged-up semi-consciousness.

"You're still with me," he mumbled back, his hands finding her waist. His thumb hooked into the belt loop of her jeans, and he pulled her close. The words sank soft against her ear: "Hermione, Jesus fucking Christ, I will never let you go."

She closed her eyes and pushed him to the bed, and after two slow minutes of deep kisses and light caresses, he drifted into sleep, his arms still wrapped around her.

His light breathing sent her off to sleep, too, soon enough.

oOo

Hermione woke up alone on Christmas morning.

She lay under Tom's covers, wrapped in blankets that smelled like him. The real him. The window had been shut already, the mess of the broken wine bottle cleaned from the floor. Everything had been returned to its prior state of pristine bareness.

She lay there for a while, just thinking. She didn't even remember it was Christmas until she looked out at the icicles dangling six inches from the window's overhang.

Hermione rolled out from the covers. Her boots, still damp from last night's snow, lay at his bedside. She ignored them, stood, and looked out the window at the grounds. A fresh blanket of snow lay over Hogwarts campus, giving it an idyllic and blinding sheen. She couldn't recall England having so much snow since she was eight – usually all they got was mucky slush heaped high on the London streets.

She turned away, and her eyes fell to the desk.

A small note lay atop an envelope, next to a gleaming silver ballpoint that had a simple red ribbon around it.

Hermione lifted the pen, untied the ribbon. The writing instrument felt cool and heavy, its barrel smooth. Her initials were engraved near the tip. What a functional gift. As she tucked it into her pocket and read the small note, she realized what was going to be inside the envelope. _Challenge complete,_ it read.

She chuckled to herself, hefting the envelope in one hand. So he'd written her the official _Ode to the Multitudinous Talents of Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr._ as a Christmas present. This should be fun.

Her fingers broke the crisp white envelope's seal.

The words curved and flowed like art. Perfect looping cursive.

_My dear Hermione -_

_At last I find myself bereft of choice,_

_A mute extraordinarily content._

_The sunset's clap forever drowns my voice_

_Eclipsing day with dark in quiet spent._

_Now hold I watchman's vigil silently,_

_And restlessly, with stoic sharp salute,_

_Though long I'd state my passion violently_

_Were not I struck quite dumb in numb pursuit._

_The sun of day alone can burn eyes blind,_

_Without fair moon of dusk to complement,_

_And thus to fever's fire would my mind_

_Were not you here to ease my temperament._

_I now embrace the fading of the light_

_To hold you through one silent, lovely night._

_Tom_

Hermione sat down, her eyes fixed on the words, her heart hollow, her mind empty.

She set the poem aside.

Love poetry.

No one had ever written her a love poem before, let alone a sonnet. In fact, she didn't know a single girl whose boyfriend had ever written her a love poem.

Let alone a bloody _sonnet._

Hermione's eyes fixed on the envelope, and she frowned. There was something written on the inside.

She opened it wide and squinted in to read it properly.

_Happy Christmas._

_I'll meet you at sunset at Hogsmeade._

Dread filled Hermione to the brim. He'd said he wasn't getting her anything, or strongly implied it, at least. And now she was left without a gift for him, and he'd gone to all this trouble –

Why the hell had he gone to all this trouble?

He'd probably just been bored.

_Right, Hermione._

Hermione spent the rest of the day making calls, busying herself. Two aunts, both her parents, an uncle, two close cousins, and every one of her friends from back home. Ron spent a good amount of time complaining about the fact that the post hadn't delivered her presents yet. She attempted to preach patience, but her mind resided elsewhere. It resided with the words folded neatly on her bedside table, the words proclaiming their devotion.

When the sun started to sink, Hermione made her way down the frozen grounds to the path to Hogsmeade.

He met her at the corner of the main street, looking put-together in felt peacoat and black slacks.

"I wanted to apologize," he said stiffly, looking around as if the deserted street was filled with people hanging on his every word.

A short pause. Then, "Apology accepted," she said. "But before you get conceited, it's not just because of the poem."

"Did … you did like it, though, didn't you?"

"Is that a hint of anxiety I hear?"

"No. Just a mild desire for affirmation."

"Well, consider yourself affirmed," she said. "It was … nice. Thank you."

His expression softened, and the atmosphere of awkwardness lessened. "I'm ... I'm glad. And you're welcome." He turned slightly and nodded, looking almost perplexed. "Shall we go to dinner?"

"Where?"

"You'll see."

They headed down the street. Hermione bit her lip – Hogsmeade had exactly one fancy restaurant, and she wasn't at all dressed for the occasion. Would it even be open for Christmas? The place held bizarre hours, yes, but to be open on Christmas Day…

Then they turned down a tiny side street, and Tom started climbing a ladder up one of the buildings.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Are we even allowed up there?"

"Course." He waved her up.

The iron bars felt like ice under her fingers, but she followed. When she reached the roof, she started to brush the snow off her sweatpants, but stopped. Tucked between two smokestacks and a wall was a tiny nook, a blanket spread across the cement roof.

"Candles and champagne?" Hermione sat beside him and marveled at the warmth, tucked away from the bitter wind. "I ... Tom, how … romantic of you."

"Not romantic." He poured her a glass. "Traditionalist."

"A toast?" she asked, raising the delicate flute he handed her.

"I'm not having any." Tom didn't meet her eyes.

She sensed this was his actual method of demonstrating his repentance.

She inclined her head and took a sip. The sweet, light taste fizzed across her tongue. "Delicious."

"French."

Hermione leaned back against the wall with a satisfied sigh. "I'd love to go to France again. I've been once."

"Would you like to go over summer?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the round basket in the middle of the blanket. "That … sounds lovely."

"Hermione."

She looked at him, then, and set down her glass.

"Are you scared of me?" he asked. "Now that you know?"

"Of course I am. Who in their right mind wouldn't be?" She sighed. "Logically, though, I know you don't actually have a reason to hurt me."

"You're right." He set down the bottle of champagne. "I will never hurt you. As for my actions, I would offer some explanation, but I'm under the impression that I rather revealed my motives last night."

"Yes."

"It's all a little hazy, I must admit. Last night." Tom sighed, looking up at the night sky. The stars glittered in the ink of his irises. "I have one more thing for you."

"You really …" Hermione pursed her lips. "I … you really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

"Here." He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his coat pocket and handed it to her.

It was her proposal for the kitchen workers' rights.

And at the bottom, Dippet's signature was scrawled.

Hermione stiffened. "You did this."

"Yes."

"You convinced him."

A nod.

"On my behalf."

Another nod. "And because ... I can see ... I can see your perspective, I think."

Hermione clutched to the paper, terrified that the wind would whisk it away. He'd done all this for her. He'd gotten by Dippet's idiocy, circumnavigated the entire bureaucracy, for her. He'd invested his time and energy in what she cared about.

She frowned. "I … I love you," she said slowly, as if trying to taste it.

The night went on. Though it surprised Tom that she hadn't gotten him anything, he never brought it up.

But though he didn't know it, when she said _I love you_ on Christmas evening, she finally realized the words were true.

And such a gift was unfathomable.

x

x

x

* * *

**"darling!because my blood can sing  
****and dance(and does with each your least  
****your any most very amazing now  
****or here)let pitiless fear play host  
****to every isn't that's under the spring  
****-but if a look should april me,  
****down isn't's own isn't go ghostly they**

**doubting can turn men's see to stare  
their faith to how their joy to why  
their stride and breathing to limp and prove  
-but if a look should april me,  
****some thousand million hundred more  
bright worlds than merely by doubting have  
darkly themselves unmade makes love"**

**-E.E. Cummings**

* * *

**See you soon! Drop me a note, I eat reviews for every breakfast lunch 'n dinner.**

**s.w.**


	18. JP Morgana

**Dude! Last chapter got like Tied for Last numbers of reviews *warm fuzzies***

**I love you.**

**solussword, MaybeFreedom, PintoNess, murtagh799, Gladioli, werevampluvr, SamarKanda, mexicantt, DigiEmissary, kcluvssugar, xPaintedxRedx, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, barfday, Kissable-Luxury, OrchidsAndVines, Lost Soul Here, BlackShirt16, Annevader, EmeraldGoddess52, Lania26, cocoartist, Silverandgold12294, moor, xodreamerskyes, summerful21, NS, XxTaintedxDaggerxX, Kendall N.S, MuggleBornWY, Arabella Riddle, SexySpectrum, le-femme-cavalier, Allcoolnameshavebeentaken, dorm life livin, shinethetribute, Je t'adore Paris, mooonlove2527, Nikki, and MeriLynelle! Phew!**

**So yep, this is the second-to-last chapter! One more, and that's all, folks. :) It's been a blast.**

**OKAY YES HERE**

**Speechwriter**

**oOo **

**"Car is parked, bags are packed**

**But what kind of heart doesn't look back?"**

**-Breathe Again, Sara Bareilles**

** oOo**

* * *

Hermione tossed the phone on her desk in exasperation. The post had just delivered the device today, the 28th, and she felt bad for thinking it, but she almost wished it had just been lost in the mail. "Honestly, I think I preferred my previous piece of shit. This is so complicated – all I want to do is make a call, for heavens' sake."

"So… your ex-boyfriend got this book for you, did he?"

Hermione shot Tom a warning look. He lounged on her bed, flicking through the pages of the book Harry had got her for Christmas, not paying attention to a thing she said. "No," she sighed. "Just a friend. My ex bought me the mobile."

Tom set down the book. His eyes narrowed, focusing in on the BlackBerry on her desk as if he was trying to blow it up with his mind. "It's a nice phone."

"You're welcome to it. Why would I need to access my email through my mobile? Honestly, as if people weren't detached enough from everyday life as it is –"

"Well, once we've graduated and started doing things of actual importance, that sort of connection will be quite useful." Riddle sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You know, I could have bought that for you. Ronnie needn't have bothered."

Hermione chuckled. "His brothers call him Ickle Ronniekins."

Tom smirked and didn't reply.

"Besides, I thought you had to rely on Abraxas for all your purchasing needs."

"Not for much longer." He frowned. "I thought we'd spoken about this. The fund release is on my eighteenth birthday. I'll have full control over everything that had previous legal limitations. Including my accounts."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "…ah. Why can't you control them now?"

"It's pathetic, how little the system trusts minors. I have to have a custodian for my accounts until the thirty-first – he's some state-appointed, completely incompetent -" Tom cut himself off, a look of supreme disgust contorting his face. "Well. Soon my dealings with the fellow will be blessedly terminated, so there's that to look forward to, at least."

"Also, your eighteenth birthday. Three more days – that's exciting."

He let out a mumbled 'feh' and folded his arms, stretching out further on her bed. "You know how I feel about _that._"

Hermione sighed. "I turned eighteen months ago, and it doesn't bother me. You're far too young for this ridiculous midlife crisis, Tom."

"Do you see me buying a Lamborghini?"

She raised one eyebrow. "No, but I see you merging with a company you didn't really need to absorb, by all rights."

"Well, that's hardly a reckless move. It's a prudent economic step – it's going to go exactly as planned."

"When one buys a Lamborghini, that tends to go exactly as planned, too."

He rolled his eyes. "You."

Hermione grinned. As Tom surveyed that grin, an idle smile curved his own lips. "Come here," he said.

She sighed and obliged, lying beside him, her head leaning against his shoulder.

"I hope you're ready," he said quietly, his eyes roving over the moon past the window.

"I've never felt more prepared for anything."

Tom's gaze flickered to her. Her expression looked strangely torn. He guessed her usual anxiety plagued her about the impending meeting – after all, what had she ever done of equal importance? In Hermione's hands lay the fate of an empire. For an unassuming brainiac from Inner London… Tom could hardly imagine the weight of the burden on her shoulders. He'd always been accustomed to the enormity of his destiny, but Hermione was humble. She'd probably never anticipated this.

A sweep of possessive affection prickled through him. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "I do love you, you know," he whispered, and he believed he really did know what it meant. He marveled at her. He marveled at her effect on him. He marveled at them together.

_Did she flinch at his words?_

"I love you too." Her quiet statement assuaged his doubt.

They kissed. Tom breathed deeply through his nose, shifting over her. He took in deep the scent of raspberry, the cold fresh smell of glass, feeling the soft curves of her ready for him. As he unbuttoned her blouse, she moved to shrug her slim shoulders out of it, drawing his shirt over his head. Her arm flashed out, discarding the black fabric on the stone floor.

Tom turned out the light.

The night reigned, punctured with the dim gleam of stars. They moved with the quiet complaint of bedsprings, with the whisper of disturbed sheets.

A zipper's murmur. The click of a belt, the snap of three buttons.

Tightly controlled breathing.

A high moan. It hardly sounded like her, to Tom's ears.

Wind whistled by the window; frost iced the panes. A silhouette fluttered past the moon outside, and the mobile phone on her desk dimmed, forgotten. The small room's walls were their captive, nonjudgmental audience.

His throat hummed with a restrained groan by her ear. The sweaty slip of his fingers on her arms, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. Her thighs. The soft heat of her.

She tensed, and he pulled back. "You all right?" His murmur brushed her splayed curls, the locks radiating from her face in a dark sunburst.

"Yes." She kissed him lightly, relaxing back into the bed. "I want this."

He closed his eyes, kissed her, and said, "If you're sure."

Tom's hands rested on either side of her. His arms flanked her, two flexing pillars, and her fingers clutched his wrists.

The shockingly quiet air pressed in, nestling one sharp gasp.

Soon, the noises he couldn't restrain joined hers. The guttural, yearning sounds of their union.

The rhythmic pounding of her heart. Acceleration. The rocketing pulse.

"Don't stop." Her nails raked the sweat off his back. "God."

"Hermione…"

"God, please – don't – stop –"

_Please forgive me._

A cry, and all was lost in the rush, and he was miles high with no hope of descent, and she was buried deep with no hope of resurgence. And she struggled to hold her fluttering eyelids shut, struggled to contain ungraceful panting.

And the night prowled on past their window as they continued, arched and collapsed, rose and fell, renewed and repeated.

Hours dripped away in sweat, in friction, in slowness and depth and sweet cathartic release.

oOo

Hermione left him the next morning with a kiss on his sleeping lips. She knew it would be the last.

She picked up his clothes – his discarded jeans, his inside-out shirt – and folded them at the foot of her bed. And as she brushed a finger over his Head Boy badge, she realized it had twisted up in the fabric.

She unpinned it.

She turned it over to wind the material out of where it had snagged.

And something caught in her throat as the last reason she had not to carry through fell to pieces. In the back of the badge lay a tiny metal catch she had inadvertently sprung. And behind it, a USB drive half the size of her thumb.

Game. Set. Match.

Hermione wrote him a note. _Took your badge for good luck._

She swept her phone off the desk and shoved it into her pocket alongside the badge, and she left him.

The cab ride from Hogsmeade, the brief but hectic trip through Heathrow, the plane trip to Berlin were spent in an agony of almost-tears. Of stress and worry. She couldn't stop picturing his face – his sleeping face, creased in a light frown – the face she knew as well as her own.

She tried to shake the thoughts. She would meet Elder in a mere hour. She would bring all her plans to fruition.

As she had tea and toast in a small café in Berlin, Hermione Granger squinted up at the blue sky and wondered what could have happened if she were weaker. If she were to cave under pressures.

A BBM from Ron: _good luck today_

_Thank you._

A text from Tom. She didn't open it.

She walked briskly to the Pure-Bloody-Genius headquarters, headed into Elder's conference room, and took a seat opposite the spindly old man. Just like that, the most important hour of her life began. It all seemed so surreal.

He stuck out a hand. "Antioch Peverell," he said gruffly, "though you probably already know that."

She gave his hand a firm shake. "Hermione Granger."

"Shall we get down to business?" He set a stack of documents on the table.

"Yes; let's." Hermione folded her hands, which, she realized, were quivering. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright; the air too cold. "I … listen, I …"

His eyes pierced her. "Yes?"

She swallowed. "I apologize for the blackmail. On behalf of my employer."

Peverell's dark eyes filled with suspicion. "That hardly changes matters, Ms. Granger. You are here to discuss an issue. Let's finish it."

"Yes; let's." She took in a deep breath. "I'd like to ask you a favor."

"Go on."

"I'd like you not to mention anything that will have happened in this meeting for seventy-two hours. Nothing to your board of directors. No press conferences. Nothing. Enact none of the measures we're about to agree on for three days."

"And why is that, might I ask?"

"Because I could be in great personal danger if you disclose anything I'm about to propose."

Deep furrows appeared in Peverell's brow, and his knobbly fingers folded. "Please, do explain. And, if I may add, why is your employer not here?"

"He values his anonymity. Something I'm sure you understand, Elder." Hermione lifted her briefcase, set it on the desk, and pulled out the contract she'd drawn up on the flight over. "I'd like you to read this carefully and sign on the line below."

He took the paper from her hands and read.

_Section 1._

_Current affiliates, administration, and employees of Pure-Bloody-Genius Stores, Inc. retain all its properties, subsidiaries, stocks, operations, components, licenses, etc., without exception or interference suggested by any level of competing corporation VoldeMart Inc._

_Section 2._

_Pure-Bloody-Genius Stores, Inc. will place a cap of two million British pounds on all levels of employment's yearly earnings, and will donate three percent minimum of its corporate profits to philanthropy and/or charitable organizations._

_Section 3._

_Pure-Bloody-Genius Stores, Inc. will halt all corrupt practices of GrindelWaldenbooks Stores, Inc._

Elder's eyes turned to her, filled with a new light. "This contract … it entails nothing of what we had spoken about prior to this meeting."

"I realize that."

"And your CEO understands what this implies, contractually?"

"Not at all," Hermione said smoothly. "He hasn't seen it. Please sign it. Please tell no one. As I said, I am at great personal risk putting my neck on the line for your company."

He signed it. "Why are you doing this?"

Hermione eyed the signature with a happy, panicked bubble swelling in her chest. That was it. Step one. Next, Zurich… "Because I think his manipulation of your private life was immoral. Because I can't support a company that uses methodologies such as those VoldeMart utilizes. Because I have more faith in our economic system than to entrust it to those who use cheap ploys to generate maximum profit."

She took the contract, placed it back in her briefcase, and said, "Thank you. I wish you all the best."

Hermione Granger walked into Tegel Airport with the feeling that she had done something great. The weight of it in her breast was lead.

oOo

Riddle had a minor conniption when he discovered she'd taken his badge. _Good luck_? Really? Was she so superstitious? Did she even know what was hidden behind the false gold backing of the badge? What if she found it? Admittedly, it wouldn't show anything if she plugged it into any old computer – it was encrypted to react only to a single plug – and he had an extra buried in a classroom on the third floor. But still. The thing being any sort of distance from his person had him on edge.

_Dammit, Hermione…_

Abraxas and a couple others – Yaxley, Goyle – flew in the next morning via private jet. Riddle accosted them in the Den for a spot of one-sided venting.

"She hasn't responded to my text, either, which is worrisome. I could assume she doesn't know how to use her new mobile, I suppose, but it's _Hermione Granger;_ you'd think she'd figure it out." Riddle sat down hard on the sofa, disgusted with himself. "Why am I even worried? Pathetic."

"I'm sure everything's going well," Malfoy said, though his tone of voice betrayed his obvious agreement: this _was_ pretty pathetic. "The girl's been under your thumb for months. The badge probably has sentimental value, or some such shit." He slurped back a shot and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his new jacket.

"Hermione's practical, not sentimental."

Malfoy shrugged. "She's a girl. Girls get like that sometimes, if they're feeling emotional. Maybe it's her time of the month."

"It's not," Riddle said immediately.

An awkward pause. Malfoy shot him a sidelong glance, one of obvious surprise. "Last night?" he said. "First time?"

Riddle gave a curt nod. None of Malfoy's business, of course, but he'd practically stated it already. No sense in omitting the obvious truth.

"Er." Malfoy cleared his throat. "…congratulations?"

Riddle rolled his eyes. Why was Abraxas so awkward?

"Bet she was wild," Goyle laughed.

Riddle turned his impassive gaze on Goyle. It took no more than a second of eye contact for the grin to die from Goyle's angular features.

"Sorry."

Riddle stood slowly, relishing in the uncomfortable silence. "Yaxley, I need a distraction. What do you have?"

"Practically everything," Yaxley said, dumping his bag on the sofa and sorting through the front pocket. "What do you need?"

"Something new. I don't know."

"Something to relax?"

"Yes."

Yaxley pulled out a bag labeled _H_, a syringe, and a needle, the latter sealed in plastic. "Here. Make sure you check safety guides before shooting up."

"Thanks." Riddle tucked the materials into his pocket and headed back to his room. He checked the online application, but Hermione still hadn't texted him back.

This shouldn't have been as irritating as it was.

Riddle scrolled through his inexhaustible backlog of unread emails to distract himself. Virtual receipts, most of them, forwarded from the Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Blacks, so the company could absorb the costs.

His mouse froze, his eyes narrowing.

Airline tickets? No one had informed him of an impromptu vacation. If Pollux was going to take another random trip with his demon of a wife, Riddle would flay them both. He needed everyone instantly available for a trip to London, if it was ever necessary.

He clicked on the email, and a different problem entirely presented itself. Pollux had forwarded him records of the purchase of two airline tickets to Zurich.

One for Cygnus Black. The other for Hermione Granger.

oOo

Hermione woke up on December 30th ready to get to work.

She called a cab to the hotel and stopped in front of the headquarters of UBS, the Union Bank of Switzerland. Grooved pillars held up the colossal building, giving her the sense that she had suddenly become both small and insignificant.

Hermione fought back the feeling, strode through the doors, and before she was really ready, she found herself sitting in front of a desk far larger and more polished than necessary. The man behind it asked her something in German. She knew just enough to cobble together "I only speak English," and he switched, with a bit of a bored look.

"What do you need?" he asked.

Hermione's brain screamed at her. _Last chance out._

_Last chance._

Even separated by countries, Hermione felt Tom's presence. She could not forget him. She could not simply push him aside and make her decision – it had to be painful, and conscious, and vicious, what she was doing. It had to be difficult, of course.

She did love him.

But…

"I'd like to close seven accounts, please," she said, the words strangled.

"Under what name are they?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr."

"You have your access codes?"

Hermione handed him the sheet and tasted triumph in the back of her throat.

Or maybe it was the taste of betrayal.

He looked it up and down, nodded, and started typing. "It may take a while."

oOo

Riddle punched in Cygnus's number so hard that he thought Abraxas's phone might break.

The voice that answered was female. "Hello?"

"Hermione?" Riddle demanded.

"What? It's Mafalda. Is this Tom?"

Riddle stared at the phone. If Cygnus was in Zurich, why was Mafalda with him? "Give me to Cygnus," he said, every syllable clipped. He would get to the bottom of this, damn it.

"Hello?" said Cygnus's voice.

"It's me."

"What's the matter?"

"Where are you?"

Cygnus's tone of voice was so patronizing Tom almost kicked something. "At … home…?"

"Then why the hell is there an email in my inbox forwarding a receipt of two booked plane tickets, one bearing your name, the other the name of _my girlfriend_?"

"I … what?"

Tom found himself hating that he couldn't see Cygnus's face, couldn't analyze the boy's expression. "Yes. Your father forwarded it to me."

"My father? I – hold on, Mafalda." A minute passed. Tom heard Cygnus's hurried footsteps, and a door shutting. Then Black's voice continued. "Sir, I swear to God I'm at the family estate."

"So if I were to come to Grimmauld Place this instant, I would find you?"

"Yes. You can speak to my butler, if you'd like. Or my mother."

Riddle shuddered. "I'd rather talk to Kreacher than your insane mother."

Cygnus didn't sound impressed. "Right, well." A muffled call: "_Kreacher?_"

A minute later, Riddle was speaking to a man with an unmistakable accent. Definitely the Blacks' manservant. So Cygnus was at home, with Mafalda… why the plane tickets? Why _Hermione_?

He called her next.

She didn't pick up.

Of course she wouldn't – she was supposed to be landing in London on her return flight from Berlin in an hour and a half. How the hell was he supposed to wait that long to solve the mystery?

And why would _anyone_ need to be in Zurich? No one but him knew about the seven accounts. Not even Slughorn knew, though the foolish man had given him the know-how on how to open them – an elaborate disguise, a false identity of legal age to represent himself.

Tom pulled up the accounts on his computer. Everything looked perfectly fine there.

He closed them out, letting a long sigh through his nose. 2 PM, and Hermione would touch down at 3:30. He needed to kill time.

He yanked the needle, syringe, and powder from his pocket, and pulled up a how-to guide on his browser.

oOo

Hermione checked her watch. She'd gone out for a spot of lunch. It was 2:30 PM now – surely the process would be complete.

The man through the glass doors, across the wooden desk, said the preparations had just been finished. He asked her where she'd like the money transferred.

"UNICEF," she told him, "and channel all funds intended for those accounts toward UNICEF, too. It'll be a few days before all the loose ends are closed up." She left him with a handshake.

She formulated her mental to-do list. First, to call Tom at 3:45 or so, to tell him she had just landed, she would be meeting a few of her friends in London, and would be back later that evening. In actuality, her flight would take her into Heathrow at 6:00 PM. She had a cab arranged to Hogsmeade. Once back at school, she would grab the documents from the bathroom, fax them to her mother using the staff room's copying machine, and go to Dumbledore with the originals. Before she'd found the flash drive, she had been simply planning on outing Tom to Dumbledore without concrete proof, relying on the Evolution professor's trust. But now it was concrete.

Hermione didn't know how she could wait through the hours in-between. Her nails were already bitten down to the quick, her nerves worn fine as silk thread.

For now, she sat in a bookstore, staring at pages, finding it sort of hard to believe what she'd just done. And trying to believe in what she was about to do.

oOo

Riddle measured the powder into the spoon, the sterile water, the citric acid, the heat, the filter. He stuck in the needle and drew the syringe up, filling it with heroin.

Odd that he'd never tried it before. Had Yaxley been dealing it all these years?

He clenched his fist a couple times, gripped his bicep, waiting for an appropriate vein.

There.

The cool needle touched his skin, and he pushed it in without even a change of expression. Depressed the plunger. Withdrew it slowly.

He walked back to his room and waited.

His senses unclenched like a fist slowly uncurling. A wave of euphoria swam up into his body, taking him slowly, inch by inch.

Utter bliss.

Nothing mattered outside the serenity of his mind, outside his being pinned to the bed by the gravity of the universe. As he surveyed the ceiling in a strange and childlike fascination, his pupils shrank, mirroring the bundle of stress that dwindled into a mere pinprick in his chest. He was soaring, kissing the blue sky, lost in paradise's waterfall. He lay cradled in the arms of a God he didn't believe in.

Tom Riddle closed his eyes and smiled.

oOo

Hermione bit her lip. Abraxas's phone rang a few times before Tom picked up.

"Hello?"

"Tom. I … I've just landed at Heathrow."

"Wonderful. Fantastic. Shall I see you soon, then?"

Hermione flushed, looking around her hotel room. "I was going to visit the Weasleys for a few hours. It's been so long since I've been in London."

"I suppose I can wait a few hours."

Would this be the last time he spoke to her this way? That casual tone, calm, collected? Would she be able to watch his trial without crying? "All right," she said softly. "I'll … I'll see you tonight."

"What's the matter? You sound off. And why didn't you –"

"Reply to your text? Sorry, I was getting nervous and didn't want to worry you with a response that sounded … I don't know. Yes, everything's fine. Negotiations went exactly as we planned."

"That's good. I knew they would." She could hear the hint of a small smile in his words. "We'll celebrate tonight."

"Yes. Of … of course." Hermione drew her knees to her chest.

"By the way…"

"Yes?"

"This is a wonderful birthday gift, Hermione."

She felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. "I love you, Tom," she blurted, unable to help herself. "Please know that."

"Of course I know."

Hermione looked up at the plaster ceiling, her eyes prickling in near-tears. "And … you love me?"

"I do."

She tried to memorize the sound of the words. That was it. Their goodbye.

She put her fingers to her lips, trying to stop them from shaking. Her eyes burned. Her nose tickled, and she worked out a "See you soon."

"See you soon, love."

Hermione Granger hung up the phone and sobbed.

oOo

**5.00 PM**

In a hospital in London, Aquilus Lestrange stirred.

oOo

**5.30 PM**

Riddle eyed the syringe with wonder. The high hadn't even started to fade yet – this drug was like a miracle. The high he got off a couple lines of cocaine hardly lasted twenty-five minutes anymore, but this? It had been hours since he'd shot up. When he'd dropped by the Den to return Abraxas's phone, Yaxley had said the high could last up to ten hours. _Ten._ Insanity.

Celebration… what was appropriate for celebration? He and Hermione had exhausted the supply of champagne since Christmas Day, and he hardly fancied repetition.

He'd find something at Hogsmeade. Wrapping himself in woolen scarf and dark coat, he tucked his fake ID into his back pocket and headed down to the town. Tucking himself in the crowded shelves of Honeydukes, he hunted for something bittersweet.

oOo

**6.00 PM**

Aquilus cursed groggily. "Malfoy, that you?"

"Yes, of course it's me, you called my phone, you imbecile. Did you just wake up? Are you all right?"

"Not the time for concern. Is Riddle there?"

"He's gone to Hogsmeade."

"Goddammit. _Goddammit._ Find him and give him this phone."

"Will you stop your melodrama?" Malfoy flicked back his hair, his lip curling. "I'll leave the phone in his room. Calm down."

He didn't give Aquilus a chance to reply before hanging up.

oOo

**6.15 PM**

Hermione flicked the USB in and out of its case, staring at the balding back of the cab driver's head. She shook herself from her stupor and glanced out the window, examining the distant paradise of Hogwarts at dusk.

How would Mafalda react to this? Finding out that Cygnus had been involved in all this, and not telling her anything? Would Mafalda forgive him – would she even forgive Hermione? And Zara, who hated to be left out of the loop, who so fervently supported her and Tom's relationship in lieu of her own failing… Half the student body had holdings in VoldeMart; they would shun her once the scandal exploded, as it surely would.

"Here's fine," Hermione said.

She slipped into the wintry air and started up the grounds, yanking her suitcase over the frozen bumps. Keeping her head low, she crept past the half-iced lake into the dark shadow of the castle. As she tracked snow into the Entrance Hall, trying to lessen the noise of her suitcase trundling across the flagstones, her heart pattered in tight anticipation. She gripped the USB in her pocket and started up the stairs.

Once crouching in front of Myrtle's bathroom, Hermione unzipped the front pocket of her suitcase, tucked her bedraggled hair behind her ear, and pulled out her screwdriver.

She had to be quick – Tom could be just around the corner, in his bedroom. What if he saw her? What if everything fell down the drain at this late hour?

Hermione couldn't get his face out of her mind. She had never seen him stricken, shocked to the core. She couldn't imagine what it would be like, the calm composure dissolving. But she could picture the rage.

_No, Hermione. Stop. Think of the people you're helping._

So many people out of a job, though, with the collapse of the empire… the alteration of the entire global economy…

_Think of your principles! You are _right!

She worked faster.

Her pounding heart did not betray her. She pulled out the last screw, stepped inside, and yanked her suitcase in afterward. Her nerveless fingers shut and locked the door behind her.

Hermione's shaky voice spoke the eight digits of the passkey. A click rang out from the sinks, and into the pipe went the USB.

Behind the thick pipes, four pea-green wall tiles spread outward, revealing a safe's solid chrome exterior. A keypad.

Eight short beeps bounced off the high ceiling, incriminating her trespass. Hermione checked the door, though she knew no one would be there, and the safe let out a hiss as it opened.

She pulled the heavy door wide.

And she froze in place.

Behind the door lay a small metal interior, large enough to hold a few folders.

But it held nothing.

Not a single file. Not a single sheet of paper.

Her mind, momentarily blank, instantly rerouted. Back to the original plan – she would find Dumbledore, confide everything in him on faith. No time to waste. Every second she spent in Hogwarts was perilous.

She crept out of the bathroom, screwed the boards back in loosely, and pulled her suitcase after her. She would take it with her to Dumbledore – hell, she had to. It was a hindrance, but she couldn't risk getting any closer to Tom's room.

Why weren't the files in the safe? Had he found out somehow about her plan? How? Besides Aquilus waking up, she couldn't …

Aquilus… if he _had_ woken up…

She should head for Hogsmeade. She should call a cab right away.

Then she heard footfalls. For a second, she panicked, but the hallway had nowhere to hide – at least, nowhere for both her suitcase and herself.

The figure emerged into the hall.

Abraxas Malfoy.

He nodded in greeting. "Just got back, then, did you?"

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to look somewhat calmer than she felt. "Hello, Abraxas. Yes, just… dropping my things off at my room."

"Oh. Right. You know, I don't think Riddle knows you're back yet. He just asked to see me about something, so."

She fell into step with him, forcing a smile. She couldn't believe he didn't see how strained it was. "No, I haven't seen him yet. Actually, could you do me a favor, maybe?"

He shrugged, looking bored.

"Could you drop my bag off in my room? I have to go ask Professor Dumbledore about something."

"Oh. Dumbledore's not here."

"Dumbl – he – _what_?" Hermione nearly tripped over her own feet. A chill raced over her skin.

"He's gone to London to speak at some conference. Thought you knew everything, Granger."

"I… hadn't heard …"

They rounded the corner. As the distance between Hermione and Tom's room closed to mere feet, she grew closer and closer to fleeing. But Abraxas was looking at her strangely, now, and if she broke into a sprint away from him, he could outrun her, of course he could, and she'd have to take those damn elevators, anyway, and –

_shit_ –

No way out.

Trapped.

Well, not quite.

"Thanks for telling me about Dumbledore," Hermione said lightly. "That's a shame."

She walked into her room, put her suitcase down, and locked her door. Then she pushed her desk in front of it. No one was getting into this room anytime soon.

A quiet murmur of voices from Tom's room. She couldn't make out the subject of the conversation, but the fact that it was occurring at all made her uneasy.

After a while, footsteps.

And silence.

Hermione held her breath, waiting for his words.

She heard the click of a lighter, and a minute later, smelled cigarette smoke.

"Hermione Granger," he said softly. The words were hardly audible through the vents.

"Tom."

"_Don't you dare say my name._"

Hermione sat down hard on the bed, her hands clutching her bedsheets.

"You know I've killed for less," he said, his voice eerily calm once again.

"I do."

"Then you're remarkably brave or remarkably stupid. How interesting, the frequency with which the two coincide." A pause, and an audible exhalation. Hermione could practically see the gray haze of cigarette smoke clouding his dark eyes. "It's interesting," he said. "Yaxley gave me a new drug to try. Perhaps you've heard of the stuff – it's called _heroin_. Its effects are still going, but soon enough I'm sure it will fade. I'm sure the euphoria will be overcome by rationale.

"Strange, you know, Hermione. Strange how I presumed this act you put up could be anything but an act. I suppose I failed to see the limits of your stubbornness. I failed to realize how unlikely it was that you could love me; I failed to think that you would lie so earnestly about your affections; I failed to think that you might endanger your life, given the knowledge of what I've done. I failed to think … I failed.

"But you have failed, too." His voice grew strange and cold. "When I am done – when this drug wears off – I will come into your room and I will kill you. I will regret it. But I will do it.

"I have ordered Abraxas to dispose of your body when I've finished. I am sorry it had to be this way."

Hermione gritted her teeth, and sudden anger lit in her chest, overwhelming the fear. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"I know perfectly well what I'm saying."

"Rubbish. You don't even sound like yourself, Tom. Just listen to your own words, for Christ's sake. Do you really think I could lie that well? _Me? _Do you really think I would have slept with you the night before last if I hadn't meant it when I said I loved you? What could I have to gain from it?"

A wrenching silence.

"I meant it," she said. "_I love you._ I hate what this company does to you. I hate the distorted perceptions you have and I hate what the world has twisted you into, but I _love you._ Maybe you were destined to be this way; I don't know. But I know you're capable of more than a lack of feeling. Do you know how easy that is? Apathy? Damn it, Tom, I know how easy it is – I know how easy it would have been for me to sit back and do nothing, to fall deeper in love with you and not resist –" Her voice cracked. "Every – day – I know how easy it would have been."

She breathed deeply and waited for him to say something.

"None of this is true," he said.

"It is." She closed her eyes. "Every word."

A long, long silence.

And then his reply, every word filled with quiet agony. "You lying piece of shit."

And Hermione curled up under her covers, and for the second time that day, she cried. She didn't care if he heard. Her heart broke inside her chest and she cried until the mattress beneath her eyes was sodden. Her miserable body laid itself out and curled up and she had no control and she thrashed and pinned herself down and screamed into her pillow. _I did what I had to! _was her violent cry, one Tom Riddle attempted to ignore, but one that rang in his ears for far too long.

Tom Riddle wished he could plug his ears shut. He wished he did not have to listen to her anguish. He wished he could be as shameless as she was, to break down like that, to have some goddamn release.

Release…

He threw his cigarette into the trash can, stood, and flipped his bed over with one mighty heave, one harsh cry, and that sound was all he allowed himself. He tore the drawers out of his desk. He ripped the clothes from his closet and threw them across the floor; he smashed his chair against the wall.

He tore the pages from his calendar and flung them about, not caring where they landed, not caring what happened to any of these meaningless possessions.

Except one.

He pulled out his old plastic baggie, the coke, the stuff he was used to. Energy, not relaxation. He laid out four shaky lines and snorted them right off the stone floor, his eyes red from rubbing, from hideous rage. The lines burned going up.

The back of his knees hit the corner of his overturned bed, and he staggered, sitting down hard in the wreckage. The floor lay obscured, as if a tornado had ripped the place apart and distributed a layer of debris across every square inch, and he didn't care.

He didn't care about a fucking thing.

His heart raced, his pulse pounded, his entire being flushed with humming warmth. So much energy, and yet, barely on the other side, intense exhaustion.

Tom shut his eyes, reached for the chocolate liquor he'd bought at Honeydukes, and drank himself into a stupor within minutes. He found himself curling up beneath his lopsided bed in the darkness, a shelter from the openness. A place for only him and his splitting headache and the dying cerebral fire of his torment.

On the other side of the wall, Hermione cried herself to sleep, because of all the ways to endorse denial, sleeping was by far the most painless and absolute.

oOo

She woke up three hours later coughing and hacking, her eyes watering.

Hermione stared up at her ceiling light, wondering if this was some strange dream. Dark smoke clouded around the light. Not some dim haze – _smoke_.

Her eyes fixed on the vents, which were gushing the stuff, twin gray rivers.

"Tom?" she breathed, and her throat caught. She coughed, swatting the smoke away. Panic filled her. "Tom," she said loudly. "Tom, are you in your room?"

No reply.

Just a crackling noise.

The sound of an inferno.

And his silence became very, very real.

"Oh, God. Oh my God, oh my God –" Hermione leapt out of bed and shoved her desk away from her door in one violent motion. Cracking the door open, she threw herself out into the hall. "HELP!" she yelled, staring down the hall in both directions. She whirled around and hammered on his locked door. "THERE'S A FIRE! SOMEONE HELP! PLEASE –"

No one around, no one around to hear –

"TOM! TOM? TALK TO ME –"

She punched the door until her fists bled, but she didn't feel the splinters, didn't feel the skin rubbing raw off her knuckles. She kicked the solid block of oak.

"TOM!"

No, he couldn't die – he couldn't be dead, he _couldn't_ –

"SOMEONE HELP ME!"

She screamed, screamed, screamed until her throat felt torn in two, and she could hear the blaze, feel it through the wood.

Hermione backed up, gritted her teeth, and flung herself at the door.

Once.

Twice – the old iron bolt trembled against its thin wooden constraints –

Three times. The door buckled.

The flood of cool oxygen to the fire beyond created a sheet of flame. It blasted through the door, tossing Hermione like a rag. She hit the stone wall opposite the door with a sickening _crack _and landed in a crumpled pile.

The noise of the explosion woke Tom.

He lay under what remained of his bed, sweating, dehydrated, feverish. Head spinning. Fuck, this nausea – and was this some sort of hallucination? The roaring flame –

His hand brushed his discarded metal lamp, and the heat seared his palm red.

Not a hallucination.

_Fuck!_

Tom scrambled out from the bed, which was ablaze on top, about to collapse. Ladders of white flame streamed up the curtains; orange tongues consumed his desk. The smoke ate up his vision, attacked his lungs; the fire was a beast, seizing on all the obstacles he'd strewn in his own path.

He clawed his way through. He swatted through the thick disorientating fog and hit stone, hit the wall, saw a glimmer of light and the doorway –

Why was the door open? –

The ceiling fixture sputtered, and the lightbulb finally exploded. Hot glass traced a vicious line across his bicep, and he let out a strangled yell, clutching at it. He coughed, trying to draw breath, failing –

Staggering –

He threw himself through the door, hit the stone floor of the hallway, ripped his palms open.

And even as the scent of his own blood kissed his nose, he saw her immobile on the floor of the hall. Her right arm lay at a terrible angle, twisted around backward behind her head.

He did not know his own safety could become so little of an issue with such speed.

He scrambled to her side, turned her over, and yelled for help, cradling her in his arms. A mat of bloody hair lay at the back of her skull; her hands were torn, palms and knuckles alike. He clutched them, kissed them, kissed her, tried to kiss her awake, even as the fire behind him devoured everything he could have called his.

"Hermione," he murmured. "Oh, shit, shit, Hermione, _please –_"

Two teachers raced around the corner clutching fire extinguishers. "Someone yelled fire," panted Professor Merrythought.

_Hermione had done it. She'd called for help, saved him, broken through the door –_

"Get back, Tom –"

"To the Infirmary," said Slughorn over his shoulder. "Get her to the Infirmary! Now! I'll call Madam Fortina in from Hogsmeade after we're done here –"

Fire extinguishers blasted on. Tom didn't need telling twice. He swept Hermione's broken body up in his arms and rose, staggered once as a wave of dizziness struck him, and fought through it. He bit his tongue so hard the tang of blood flooded his mouth. _Come on. Get her to safety._

He rushed down the hall into the elevator, which lifted them to the seventh floor. He brought her into the large, brightly-lit Infirmary. It seemed like a different world from the clot of knotted smoke on the second floor, and as Tom laid her on the bedsheets, he found himself praying to whatever entity ruled fate or the universe. _Just this one thing. Please_.

He grabbed a first aid kit and started cleaning her wounds himself, started untangling her hair to feel the abrasion behind it. There was no major gash – just a small cut leaking blood, and lots of swelling. As for her torn hands… it pained him to see them so ruined, so still.

Half an hour passed, and Tom finished cleaning and bandaging Hermione's injuries, wondering where in fuck's name the nurse was – useless woman, wasn't this her job?

The minor burns on Hermione's face were patched, taped, and he'd snipped a patch of hair away from the back of her head to let the small wound breathe. He'd also splinted her arm as best he could, though he was hardly an expert. Now all he could do was wait.

That was the worst feeling of all.

But even as he checked the door, Hermione moved in her bed, and he crouched beside her in one swift motion, gripping her good forearm. "Hermione," he said. "_Hermione._ Look at me._"_

She cracked open her hazel eyes. They glinted with disorientation, confusion, pain, as they met his.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, thank heaven you're all right." He swam in oceans of relief, his mind rejecting all rational thought. He could not and would not think. For now he just needed her safe.

How the hell had he ever thought he could hurt her? He wouldn't have been able to do a thing, even if he'd tried. He would have stood before this girl, helpless to make a goddamned move.

Tom pulled back, still resting a hand on her wrist. "Does anything hurt?" he demanded. "Tell me."

She looked torn. As she blinked a few times, a light frown creased her brow.

He froze. She was going to tell him to leave.

His pulse pounded painfully. His mind formulated a million responses. _I swear to God I didn't mean what I said. I would never hurt you – I couldn't – I didn't mean it. Please don't make me leave you._

_Please. I love you._

But then she spoke, her voice a hoarse whisper, and Tom's heart stopped beating altogether.

"I'm … I'm so sorry," Hermione said, her eyes filling with hopelessness. "Who are you?"

* * *

**oOo**

**"Don't kill me."**

**-Speechwriter**

**oOo**

***flees***


	19. The End

**o_O this is it**

**maybe an epilogue, maybe**

**I cannot type out all your names because my fingers will die! But THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU SO MUCH for all your reactions and comments. Makes my heart die of joy.**

**Speechwriter**

**oOo **

**"Sing for absolution.  
I will be singing  
And falling from your grace.**

**Our wrongs remain unrectified**  
**and our souls won't be exhumed.****"**

**-Sing for Absolution, Muse**

** oOo**

* * *

Dumbledore didn't have a shred of sympathy in his gaze. "We're still trying to pinpoint exactly how much the retrograde amnesia has destroyed, Mr. Riddle."

"You don't _know_?" he seethed. "It's been hours, and you still haven't –"

"As you know, I took the earliest flight back, but one cannot simply disappear from one place and reappear in another, as much as we might like. Added to that delay the fact that we are very much forbidden from bringing in specialists unless I have personally contacted the parent or guardian of –"

"But what have you even been doing for the last –"

"_Setting her arm and checking for cranial hemorrhage, Mr. Riddle_." Dumbledore tilted his head, consternation darkening his mild gaze. "The good news is that her ability to retrieve memories with her usual speed doesn't seem to be impaired – otherwise she might not ever again seem like the same Ms. Granger we know."

Tom turned, both hands buried in his hair, his eyes turned to the stone ceiling. "Just find out how much she's lost."

He still couldn't believe they wouldn't let him in. No one but family? Her family was all hundreds of kilometers from this place. They'd been on the phone with both her parents for a seeming age already – they'd even called _Ron and Harry_. Ron and Harry! And Tom wasn't even allowed in the room?

Bullshit.

They'd swept in just as she'd asked him who he was. Left – for once – speechless, he had been ushered out of the Infirmary.

And now he stood outside the door, agonizing over his possible avenues.

Before, she'd known everything. Now he had the option to be honest, open, reveal what he'd revealed before, and remind her of what she'd figured out for herself.

Or he could conceal everything, keep her close to ensure she didn't relapse into her dangerous state of rebellion.

He could abandon her completely.

He could kill her, just in case she remembered.

None of those options appealed to him. If he revealed everything, he stood to lose, for obvious reasons. But if he concealed anything, it just wouldn't _feel _the same. The burden of concealment – as natural as it was to bear around most people – would irritate him when it came to Hermione, now that he'd already adjusted himself to the notion of having revealed all to her.

Well, she was practically bound to her bed – apparently she had a compound fracture, as well as a tibia with a hairline fracture. He had plenty of time to decide what to do.

Tom ran his hand over his unshaven jaw, his lips thin, his brow furious. This was wildly unnecessary. Why hadn't she just ignored the fire? Why hadn't she just let him burn? He'd threatened to kill her, for Christ's sake! By all accounts, it didn't make logical sense.

But then he would be dead.

He repressed a shudder at the thought.

oOo

"Of course I remember my parents," Hermione said groggily.

Dumbledore nodded. "Do you remember your arrival at Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts … Academy? That's where I am, then?"

"Halfway through the year, Ms. Granger."

Her face went blank, and she struggled to sit up halfway before giving up the attempt. "No! I'll have lost everything I need to know for my classes!"

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Unfortunately, that seems to be the case."

The girl swore rather loudly and then seemed to remember she had company. "Who are you, by the way?"

"That is Horace Slughorn, your Organic Chemistry Professor. This man is Headmaster Armando Dippet. And I am Albus Dumbledore."

"_The_ Albus Dumbledore?" She blinked rapidly, looking between Dippet and Slughorn as if expecting one of them to say, _'JK LOL!'_ "I've read _so_ much about you, it's fantastic to meet you."

"I, erm," Dumbledore said, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "Having had you in my class for six months, I cannot return the sentiment that it is nice to meet you. But having your acquaintance is lovely nonetheless. I don't suppose you remember any of the circumstances of your accident?"

"Not a thing. Who was that boy in here, earlier?"

"Tom Riddle," Dippet piped up.

Slughorn shook his head sadly. "Young love torn asunder."

Hermione went red. "I … I was … romantically involved? With _him_?"

"Yes; indeed you were," Dumbledore said, though he seemed rather less wistful about it than Slughorn. "He's distraught about your current state, as you may imagine."

"How long did you say I'm going to be kept here, again?" Hermione said.

"We should have a cast put on your leg later this week, hopefully. Until then, you shall be bedridden indeed."

"So, I suppose I've lost around … five months? Maybe a little more?"

"Yes," Dippet said. "Unfortunate, my dear girl, but dreadful things do happen. I'm merely glad you are intact, gracious – and it's wonderful that your communicative abilities seem unaffected. We'll have a neurologist in soon to determine how severe the cognitive effects are. Are you having any sensory issues?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I have some spots in my eyes. I can't really feel my fingers, either."

"Well, we've placed a panic button by your bed," Slughorn said, waving to a fat red alarm button on the bedside table. "Seizure is common for those with a severe brain injury – if you feel anything strange at all, press it. And just be warned – your coordination will probably be poor at best."

Hermione mumbled, "Least I'm not doing much walking around."

"We still have to find the source of the fire that started in Mr. Riddle's room," Dumbledore reminded Dippet.

"Sorry, Albus. Not feasible," Slughorn said. "Did you see the place? Burned to a crisp. A few cinders left of the bedframe. Other than that, practically nothing. Just terrible."

Dumbledore raised one eyebrow and did not reply.

Hermione settled into her bed and looked blankly around at the Infirmary. "May I speak to Ron and Harry? Or my parents?"

"We've called them and informed them of the situation. You shall, of course, be allowed to speak with them later," Dumbledore said. "For now, though, we wish that you reacquaint yourself more fully with your surroundings, your current circumstances. Otherwise, speaking with your friends or family may be very distressing for them. More so than necessary."

"May I have my schoolbooks?"

"And your notes," Slughorn said. "We'll have them sent up from your room."

"For now," Dippet said, "we should go and make a few more calls. Come, you two. Again – very sorry, Ms. Granger."

"Mr. Riddle wishes to come in and speak with you," Slughorn said. "We're inclined not to let him, but –"

"Why not?" asked Hermione. "Might as well, as long as I'm immobile and have nothing else to occupy my –" She shifted in her bed and winced as pain lanced through her arm.

Dumbledore gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, but opened the door, letting Tom through.

The three men left Tom and Hermione alone. The door clicked shut.

"Feeling all right?" Tom said.

"Yes. I'm sorry, what was your name again? I didn't quite catch –"

"Tom Riddle." He gave her something halfway between his usual charming smile and a look of extreme pain. His face felt unusually and uncomfortably warm as he looked at the girl in the bed. He had a second chance with her – but wasn't it she who needed the second chance? He didn't know how to react to what she'd done, now that she'd lost all memory of it. It seemed almost too easy – he would reopen the accounts, coerce her back into falling in love with –

He shook his head slightly, remembering that she'd never really been in love with him. At least, he presumed not, and if she had, he had no way of knowing.

Except to trust her on her word.

"Sorry," he said, realizing that he'd been staring at her for a minute or so. "I've never experienced anything quite like this."

"I would presume," she said dryly. "I would be rather worried if you had."

"Well, thank God your sarcasm hasn't subsided."

"I've lost my memory, not my personality."

"Evidently. Although I'm sure you know of the risk of irritability, insomnia, and mood swings, given your injury." Tom frowned, looking down at his knees. He realized this angered him almost to the breaking point. How dare she injure herself like this? How dare she hurt her _mind?_ It was the most beautiful part of her, the reason he felt that magnetic draw to her – the reason he'd needed her. He needed their relationship to have the same connotation it had had before – the heated debates, the constant dueling, the passionate disagreements. The fire.

He needed her to do it all again, exactly how she had before.

She could not be emotionally crippled. That was _his_ job.

But to turn back time was impossible, and so much had been conditional on outside circumstances – some of which had now ceased to be. What if she'd only tolerated him before because of something he could not do again? Could two people fall in love twice, if they were never meant to fall in the first place? They'd walked a fine line as it was, a perilous balance of manipulation and acceptance, push and pull.

"Riddle?"

He choked back an objection. Of course she'd refer to him by his last name – she didn't know him anymore.

"Yes?" he said after a long while.

"Could you tell me about the year so far?"

"Of course." He obliged. For several hours, they sat and discussed the various goings-on of previous months, specific events marking her path through Hogwarts Academy.

She sat and drank it all in, her eyes only occasionally filled with pain.

oOo

"So," Iris said.

"Who are you, then?" Hermione asked.

"Iris Parkinson. This is Josiah Zabini. Malfoy's just informed us that you've been lying to us for five months."

"Lovely. About what?"

"Your financial situation. You're on scholarship. You didn't tell anyone."

"Really?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "That doesn't sound like me."

"Well. You did. And honestly, we're offended. Did you really think we'd just, like, ditch you when we found out?"

Josiah shook her head. "Oh my God."

Hermione looked blankly at Josiah. She'd been in the room for five minutes, and the only words she'd uttered were "my," "oh," and "God," in varying arrangements. Of course, this was probably shocking for them. Hermione didn't know anyone who'd lost his or her memory. She doubted many people did. Memory loss was something mostly reserved for B-movies, from what she knew – since Professor Dumbledore had brought her a school laptop the day before, she'd been doing quite a bit of research on memory loss.

"Well, er," Hermione said. "I … apologize? For lying? Although, you know, I don't actually remember it, so to apologize seems rather silly."

Iris shrugged. "Just thought you ought to know. I hope your leg and arm feel better soon – there's a line of people outside, we'd better run."

"A line?" Hermione grinned. "That's nice."

"Now that we're all back from the hols, word's out. Get ready for, like, everyone to ask you questions about things you don't remember." Iris sighed.

"Good luck," Josiah added.

"Thanks. See you two around?"

"Of course."

As they left, Hermione settled deeper into her bed. Two more days until Dumbledore would let her pry herself from the sheets. Two days until she could go back to her dorm – back to her classes – and act like a normal student.

The 'line' Iris had referenced turned out to be short. Mafalda Hopkirk, Zara Johnson, Trenton Bode, Nick Abbott. Cygnus Black, who seemed uncomfortable, but who offered nothing but pleasantries. Tom Riddle came in at the end, after everyone had left. He visited a lot, but he never seemed anything but ill-at-ease, making stilted conversation.

The teachers of Hogwarts worried about Hermione. They feared her formidable class load might overpower her formidable mind; they feared social adjustment would be difficult in the wake of the truth about her scholarship getting out; they feared that her personality – despite all her protests to the contrary – might be altered by the damage to her brain. And indeed, she always seemed irritable when they went in to talk to her, occasionally growing angry and frustrated over nothing at all.

She claimed that her vision skewed sometimes, that she couldn't taste or smell things. She knocked things over when she reached for them, and almost always seemed confused or addled by her lack of coordination. And then there were the times she yelled in pain from involuntary muscle contractions.

Everyone knew things had changed.

And everyone knew Tom Riddle had changed because of it. The previous Head Boy – personable, kind, charming – had been replaced with a dark, irascible boy whose mind always seemed elsewhere. Some people had the audacity to send him condolence cards. The letters were found half-burned in the ashtrays at the Den.

And to Yaxley's frustration, Riddle's occupation over the state of that girl had stopped him buying. He would've thought the boy would want more, would dive into the world of legitimate addiction – but no. His self-restraint appeared as freakishly strong as ever.

oOo

Tom Riddle hated rooming down here. He hated the lack of a window, he hated the poor internet connection, and most of all, he hated the people who roomed on either side of him. If that stupid bastard to his left didn't stop blasting low-quality rock on his low-quality speakers, Tom was going to murder something. This room was not of the caliber a Head Boy deserved.

They'd given him a new pin to replace the one that – presumably – still lay in Hermione's room, but someone was practically always patrolling that hall. He would never be able to get in to retrieve it – and honestly, what use would Hermione have for it anymore?

Sometimes, looking into her eyes, he got the feeling she wanted to ask him questions. But she rarely did. The way she spoke was cautious, almost; guarded, like back in their earlier days. Once, he made some comment about economics, and she lashed out at him. It had alarmed and unsettled him to a degree he wasn't willing to admit.

How dare she change?

Running the business had lost some of its joy. Every time he made an executive decision, he remembered how he used to run them by her first, how she would tweak his ideas and offer her input. And then the terrible thought always reiterated itself: Every time she'd said something, she'd aimed for his ultimate demise. Inevitably, it all trailed back to her manipulation. Her lies.

And he couldn't even bring himself to ruin her for it. How pathetic.

He'd questioned Cygnus about it – he'd even brought out the knife, for the first time in a while, made a few nicks that could look like shaving mistakes – but Black insisted he knew nothing about the purchase of those plane tickets. Riddle didn't believe it. He had no faith in coincidence, and the library incident combined with this unexplained turn of events was more than enough to curb his trust in Black. He needed to get around to dismissing the boy, or somehow ensuring that he wouldn't ruin everything – because if he could assume Black knew about Hermione's plan, he could also assume Black did not approve of the company's more creative endeavors.

To Riddle's infuriation, he had no time to fly back to Zurich to re-open the accounts. His classes barreled forward at an alarming rate, and with the constant questioning by officials about exactly how his room had gone up in flames, he could hardly leave campus without suspicion from obnoxious personages such as Dumbledore.

Riddle twitched and glanced at the wall.

That. Damn. Rock. Music.

He'd turned up the Chopin to full volume, but even his headphones couldn't drown the sound. Tearing his earbuds out, he stormed from his dorm and swept up to the Infirmary.

"Something wrong?" Hermione said from her bed, amusement tingeing her voice.

"Yes, something is wrong." He slammed the door behind him, and the smile dropped from Hermione's face. Tom almost reined in his temper, remembering she wouldn't have really seen his anger before, but what the hell. No one else was here – that damn nurse was never around. They needed to fire the woman. "You've lost your memory. You've _lost your memory_. That's what's bloody wrong."

She snapped back. "Oh, I apologize on bended knee. Because everything is about you, I suppose. You're going to make this about you."

"Yes. I am. I hate everyone, Hermione. You are the single person I can tolerate. And now it's just … everything you … just gone."

"What's _just gone_?"

"I'm not here to explain what I mean, I just want you to know how goddamned frustrating it is." He shook his head.

She settled back into her bed, looking slightly mollified. "Noted."

He rounded on the empty Infirmary. This felt like speaking to a facsimile of Hermione, some sacrilegious mock-up of the real her. Why had he thought this would help? Why had he come up here?

"You know, I quit using," he said quietly. "I stopped. Like some idiotic bargain with the universe, like you'd remember everything if I did what you wanted me to do."

"You …?"

He slouched onto the bed next to her. "Threw away the coke. Stopped smoking, too. Everything's gone. For fuck's sake, I even stopped drinking."

"Wonderful."

Riddle shook his head, his eyes fixing on hers at last. They were shielded, mildly disturbed. He wondered if he'd overshared – not that he cared, really. "I did it for a girl," he muttered. "A girl who isn't you."

He thought he saw a flicker of pain in her gaze. "You can leave if you'd like," she said coldly. "I'm not asking you to hang around, Riddle. I can't fix the past, and I can't change what's happened. I'd just like to get my life back on track, if you please."

Tom made a sudden motion. She flinched back, and that, more than anything, enraged him. He moved to her bedside and grabbed her shoulder. She never used to be twitchy like this, nervous, afraid of him. "Come on," he said. "Come on, Hermione. I know your memories are in there. You can't just presume to lose them."

"I will tell you this once. Let go. Now."

He forced his fingers to release her, his thin pale cheeks tinged an angry red. "Dammit. _Dammit_, I need you back. I need you with me."

He needed her love, though he wasn't about to say that, or even acknowledge it.

"You're fighting a losing battle," she said softly. "Perhaps you should try some positivity."

He made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat.

Hermione yawned, blinking blear from her eyes. "Surely there's … I don't know, something you might have preferred I forget?"

Tom's sense of irony didn't let that one escape. He should have been overjoyed at the prospect of her memory's destruction. But he just hated it – and he supposed that, in part, his own imprudence caused his bitter rage.

That rage spilled over, but for once, he did not snap. Instead, the frustration swallowed him. He sat down hard on the bed, eyes shut, fists clenched. "Not a damn thing," he said. "I wouldn't have changed you for money, or power, or glory. I wouldn't have changed you for the world in its godforsaken entirety."

A long silence. He didn't look at her.

"I should go," he said, and he left.

Later, Tom sat out in the freezing grounds and wondered if he could fix her.

It would take so much time, attempting to cultivate the relationship once more. Time he no longer had, with the full financial burdens of the company to deal with. Combined with his presumption that Black had him dangling an inch from ruination, Tom had more than enough on his plate.

But to say that he was not distracted by Hermione's situation would have been a dirty lie. No, Tom Riddle found himself preoccupied at most inopportune times, such as during class or in the middle of the night. He wanted her back. Every part of her. And he had faith in his ability to resurrect what they'd had – he had to believe. If he didn't, what was the point of considering this in the first place? What was the point of visiting her, waiting until she fell asleep to press his lips to her cheek and brush her frizzy hair behind her ear? Why should taking her hand mollify his disturbed spirits if he didn't think they could return to the way they'd been before?

The company's demands, though, would only grow.

He couldn't have everything.

Tom Riddle looked up at the sky, the newspaper-grey clouds. His dark eyes reflected the lightning darting along their undersides, the delicate spines of electricity. He shook his head, everything boiling up to the surface. Five months ago, this wouldn't have been a hint of an option. Five months ago, he hadn't known of this girl's existence. Four months ago, she had hardly been a blip on his radar. Three, she had been a nuisance.

Where had he strayed?

When the hell had he fallen?

But how could he ignore eighteen years of hard work? How could he save VoldeMart from Cygnus Black without murdering the boy who was so high-profile? How could he shift himself out from under the burden of legal culpability?

How could Hermione Granger ever fit into this twisted, divided life again?

Which half of him mattered more?

He shouldn't have had to make this choice.

But it was necessary.

So he chose.

The only thing he believed in was himself, and so it would always be.

oOo

Hermione picked up her phone from her bedside table, but she didn't want to call Harry or Ron about this. What might they think about what Tom had said to her?

Instead, she dropped her phone back on the table and took out her laptop. She pulled up the internet and crafted an email to Cygnus Black.

_Cygnus,_

_Odd update for you. Tom was here a few hours ago, and he told me he wouldn't have changed who I was before "for money, or power, or glory." Direct quote._

_I'm sort of worried he's figured it out, to be honest. He wouldn't have a reason to lie if he weren't suspicious, and that's quite an obvious lie. At least, I think so. Have you noticed any change in his behaviour? He said he stopped using. And smoking, drinking, everything. Is that true? Not sure what to make of that particular claim._

_Have you got an update for me? Please tell me the post will deliver the materials soon – we have to show Dumbledore before Tom finds time to get to Zurich. Speaking of which, has the plane ticket situation blown over yet? Every time Tom talks about you, he gets this nasty look on his face. Don't think he trusts you in the slightest, to be honest. Hope you're alright, regardless._

_Keep me posted. Hopefully this will end soon – I feel so awful about how considerate everyone's being. And it's dreadfully awkward having to pretend all the time. I feel like an idiot on occasion, frankly – mood swings are tricky to pull off with any degree of believability. You know I'm not exactly an actress. And I have to keep knocking things over when people are around, which is a pain in the arse for everyone involved. I'm so sick of it._

_They even got me a physical therapist. Thank God he inadvertently tells me a lot of side effects indirectly, so I can sort of mirror them. As much as I love WebMD, it's not reliable a hundred percent of the time. Or, you know. Fifty percent. Or ten._

_Anyway – in short, please please _please_ make haste. And make sure you've remembered to get rid of the flash drive. Thanks, Cygnus – you're the best partner-in-stopping-crime I could ask for._

_Best,_

_Hermione_

She clicked send and shut the laptop, shaking her head. Of course Tom couldn't just accept that she'd forgotten everything and move on – he had to hang around for some inexplicable purpose, speaking with her, looking anguished.

It hurt every time he walked into the Infirmary. It hurt that he never touched her. It hurt to pretend she didn't really know him, because before, she had been so much more open and truthful than he would ever know.

_Dammit, Tom._

Two days after the accident, she'd emailed Harry and Ron detailing the truth of what had happened, the façade she had adopted to protect herself. The secret itched at her, tempted her to reveal it every time someone visited her in the Infirmary – if it hadn't been for Harry, Ron, and Cygnus, she would have gone insane bottling it up. Even as it was, the stress threatened to make her sick.

And she selfishly wanted Tom back. Less selfishly, she longed for the prolonged agony in his expression to fade, longed for him to know she still loved him.

The part of her that loved him more than anything else said, _Tell him the truth. Tell him you know everything._

But how could she do it without breaking him further?

And could she really trust him not to hurt her?

Twenty minutes later, a knock on the Infirmary door. Tom strode in. "Hermione?"

She let her usual look of pained concentration slide over her face. "What is it?"

"We have to speak."

"Then speak."

He stood by the door, not approaching. For a while he seemed to search for words. Then, finally: "You … remember VoldeMart, right?"

"Of course," she snapped. "What do you think I am, an idiot?" She hated being snippy all the time, though it constituted a vital part of the act. Every time she lashed out at him, she saw him draw further and further away, and it killed her.

Why would he bring up the company? A sense of foreboding lowered over her.

This was it. He was going to say goodbye. He was going to leave her for the company, and she didn't know how she would keep it from feeling like a steel fist to the ribcage.

He exhaled slowly. "What I'm about to say probably won't make much sense. But I want you to know anyway."

"Go ahead."

"I …"

She waited, tense and breathless.

"I abdicated," he said. "I handed my position over to Cygnus Black. I'm done."

Hermione's heart quit. Her mouth went parchment dry, and icy cold raced over her skin as her pulse restarted. Her thoughts jumbled, wove together in a hopeless mess. He couldn't have just said that. He couldn't have.

But she kept her expression immobile, tired, uncomprehending.

"I don't need an inherited birthright to be successful," he said. "I can make millions on my own, and I don't need a fundamentally rotten business to help me achieve my ends." He shrugged. "I turned in the last of my applications to universities last night. I wasn't going to apply anywhere, but I supposed it was irrational not to, in the wake of my decision. I submitted it all past the deadline, but I forged an earlier postmark. In any case, I'm sure they'd make an exception in my case, even if I were weeks late."

Riddle waited for a reaction. Hermione looked largely unaffected, but something glinted in her eyes, something almost familiar.

A long, tense silence drew itself between them.

"What is wrong with you?" she said, finally. "I don't even know what you're saying. I've no clue what you're talking about. How am I supposed to react to something that doesn't mean a thing to me? Well? What do you want from me?"

"I don't know."

"You don't bloody know? Well, that's bloody brilliant, isn't it." Her eyes flashed with sudden, angry tears. Tom headed to her bedside, his gaze strangely gentle.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" she said. "Why don't you just _leave_?"

"Because I don't break my promises. I said I wouldn't let you go."

"I haven't done one thingthat would make you want to leave?"

"Of course you have. Far more than one."

"So why –"

"Because I'm in love with you. That's my answer to all your questions." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm dangerously stubborn. I assure you, I will never stop trying to reclaim what is mine."

"And there's nothing I could do to dissuade you? Nothing at all?"

"I'm afraid not. You've already done quite a good amount in that seeming pursuit, and nothing has worked yet. You remain, Hermione Granger, perfectly remarkable in every way. One does not abandon a person with that unique quality."

"And you're qualified to make the judgment that I'm remarkable."

He smirked. "Of course I am. I challenge you to find anyone with higher standards for personhood than I."

"What if it doesn't work between us?"

"It will."

"What if I go to Yale and you go to Oxford?"

"The internet is a marvelous thing."

"What if I became an activist for a cause you hated?"

He snorted. "Like that's never happened before."

"What if I'm just not in love with you?"

Riddle sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. "Irrelevant. I'll be here. And if you want me gone, I'll be out of sight, but waiting. I'll wait until you're ready to fall in love again."

Hermione felt the tears sliding over her cheeks before she realized she was crying. "And what then, Tom?"

His face looked pained, innocent. "Then you'll be mine again."

She let out a sob, and her good hand flew to her mouth. She pressed her white knuckles to her lips, closed her eyes and let the crying take her.

He gripped her useless hand, her limp fingers.

She shook her head. It couldn't be true. He couldn't have given up everything for a girl who had never presumed to gain his affection in the first place.

But at the same time, his remarkable arrogance almost made it believable. Of course he would rise to the top again, like oil on water, and he knew it. Tom Marvolo Riddle could never fade into anonymity. It was only a matter of time before his attraction to power sent him soaring again.

The words perched themselves on the edges of her lips. She wanted to say them. She so desperately wanted to.

But would he snap again, as he had before? Descend into dangerous anger?

She always had the panic button.

_Time to put a stop to all this indecision._

"I w-want to tell you a secret," she said, her voice half-whisper, half-sob.

He leaned down until her lips brushed his ear.

She closed her eyes, regaining some sense of composure. "Ready?"

"Of course."

Hermione's good hand tilted his chin, making him face her. From this distance, his eyes burned, blazed, electrified her. "You're an idiot to believe I could ever forget you."

His eyebrows drew together, and instant comprehension flooded his expression. "Hermione."

"I was scared."

"_Hermione._"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I mean, I'm not sorry for what I did before, I still think it was the right thing to do, but I am sorry it hurt you, because I never wanted to – I didn't mean to do all this lying, I was just so afraid and I thought you'd never come around and –"

His kiss interrupted her. He pressed her back against the headboard, his hands gripping her upper arms so tightly she thought she could feel the circulation coming to a halt. "You're insane," he murmured against her. She breathed in deep. The scent of him flooded her every pore, enlivening her. "Absolutely bloody insane," he said. "No one else in the world would do this. You're aware of that, right?"

"I had to think quickly."

"And you haven't told anyone else you lied?"

"Well, Harry and Ron. And Cygnus. He was in on it."

"How long?"

"Since I killed your accounts."

"_I knew it_."

"I know you knew. That's why you gave him the company, isn't it? To keep him quiet."

"And because I knew it was an ultimatum. It could never be both you and VoldeMart."

She pulled him closer, his hands pressing into the mattress beside her. "I can't believe you did it," she murmured, and as the last burden of falsity lifted from her back, a glorious wash of freedom barreled through her. "God, Tom. I didn't ever hope – I never thought … from the moment I started to fall in love with you, I tried not to let myself. I thought it was hopeless."

"It was hopeless. Shows how much faith you can put in hope." A semi-smile cracked his lips, lifting his pale face into that arrogant expression, the one that infuriated and exhilarated her.

"Can I promise you something?" she asked.

"You can promise me everything."

"I will never lie to you again."

"…do you want me to reciprocate this sweeping generalization?"

"No," she said firmly. "I want you to trust me."

He sat back, a curious expression on his face. "As long as I respect you, I trust you. And you will never lose my respect, unless you somehow become a different person entirely."

"Is that your promise?"

In response, he slid a clunky black ring off his finger and slipped it into her hand.

"What's this?"

"Four hundred thousand pounds' worth of gemstones inset under an obsidian cover. The last of my fortune. You have it all, Hermione Granger. You will always have my all."

She curled her fingers around the ring, and when she gave him her smile, their heartbeats stuttered into alignment.

In the Infirmary of Hogwarts Academy in rural Scotland, Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. placed his hand on the cheek of Hermione Jean Granger and pressed his lips to hers. To an outside world looking in, they were a handsome boy with dark hair and a girl with a broken arm, two bright students in the wake of an unfortunate accident. Perhaps the world had already started to realize how truly extraordinary they were. Yet at this moment, to an external eye, how ordinary they would seem. How odd that this boy – clad in expensive jeans and a black cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up around his elbows – and this girl, dressed in a thin hospital gown and white sheets, could don such simple appearances, those of two young people purely and innocently in love.

Someday the world would know their names.

For now, he was just happy she knew his.

Someday the world would splash them across screens and pages, scribble their words into articles and columns.

For now, the only words she found important were the soft syllables he whispered in the empty winter air.

Someday they would have the world in love with his dark smile, her passion and verve, his arrogance, their collective brilliance. Someday they would have the future at their feet, a future with skyscrapers that stretched higher than mountains, with cars that hovered and squalled, with robots that opened their eyes and said, _I am._ Someday they would have eternity and infinity before them. Someday they would have it all.

But all that would ever really matter to the pair was that they had each other.

_x_

x

x

_fin_

* * *

**oOo**

**"Our destiny changes with our thought; we shall become what we wish to become, do what we wish to do, when our habitual thought corresponds with our desire."**

**-Orison S. Marden**

**oOo**

**A huge thank you to everyone who's journeyed this long road with me. Love you guys. ****I may do an epilogue, if it seizes my fancy... but for now, we shall let it lie.**

**Don't forget to hit that review button!**

**Have a nice day,**

**Speechwriter**


	20. Incendio Incorporated

**Um so. I basically promised an epilogue and totally didn't follow through. And then I saw a BEAUTIFUL GRAPHIC OF DYING-FROM-AMAZINGNESS for this fic made by the jrghjfsdj AWESOME Sofia and freaked out. Link in my profile.**

**Without further ado...**

**epilogue!**

**-Speechwriter**

* * *

"You wouldn't believe how obnoxious he was."

"I'm sure I could believe it. Give me a description." Hermione pushed her laptop screen back, propping it up with two volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. It had only been a month since she'd bought this for the second semester of junior year, and she'd already opened it and smacked it shut enough times for the lid to go floppy. _Honestly, technology._

Tom's exasperated sigh came through the speakers so loudly that she had to turn it down. Her roommate rolled over in her bed.

"God, where do I begin?" Tom said, gripping fistfuls of his dark hair like they were anchoring him to his sanity. "Well, firstly, he's interning at Goldman Sachs, which, as we all know, is a terrible idea. JP Morgan is the clear choice for anyone with a modicum of intellect. You know, it's really astonishing, some of the dimwits who go to Princeton."

"Is he rich?"

"Of course he's bloody rich." Tom rolled off-screen for a second. He emerged with a pair of sunglasses on his nose. "How do these look, by the way?"

"Alright, I suppose."

"In other words, cavalier, dashing, handsome. That'll do." He folded them up and leaned toward the camera. "Hermione, I don't think you understand the severity of my situation. There is no one here close to as interesting as you are. And this ... this _person _... I have to suffer through class with him _twice a week_. I think I may actually be rotting inside."

"Oh, the melodrama." Her eyes narrowed. "Hang on. You're not doing anything bad, are you? To numb the boredom?"

"Calm down. The closest I've come to nefarious intent was sneaking into all the eating clubs through the chimneys to deliver some unwanted Christmas presents."

Hermione rested her head in her hands. "You need a hobby."

"My hobby is planning what I'm going to do when I emerge from this hellhole."

"Something entrepreneurial, I presume?"

"Can you see me working for someone else?"

She made a snorting noise in the back of her throat.

"That's what I thought," he said, massaging his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I'm afraid we'll have to sell that ring on your finger, though. A startup isn't cheap, and the risk of failure is high."

"Hold on, did you say "We'll"? What makes you think I'm going along with your entrepreneurial aspirations?"

"I assumed, naturally."

"And why would you do that? I could get a job anywhere I wanted, you know. An economics degree from Brown is nothing to sniff at -"

"Oh, so you're going to join up with the Goldman Sachs crowd, are you?" he said, with an unbecoming sneer. "Going to prance off and kiss arses on Wall Street simply to have the privilege of -"

"Tom, stop that. Stop it right now." Hermione's voice shook with hurt. "How dare you think I'd settle for pandering to people in positions of power. How dare you suggest that I'm consciously seeking a path other than self-actualization! And if I were to go down that road, your belittling it wouldn't do a bit of good, and you know it."

The sneer faded, and he looked back at the camera. His dark hair was rumpled, the dust of a five o'clock shadow lying across his jaw. "Sorry," he mumbled. "This is just ... it's such an irritating situation. There are already innumerable factors that could contribute to the failure of the startup I have planned, and your non-participation was not a barrier I'd planned to have to surpass."

"The startup you _have planned_?" she said. "And were you _planning_ to tell me about these _plans _before you got me involved in them?"

"Of course. At some point."

She rolled her eyes. "Incorrigible."

"Look, I'm miserable, all right? I thought Princeton was pretentious enough for my tastes, but everyone calls me a quote, _hipster, _unquote, and I don't even know what that means, and there are some people here who are depressingly normal. I mean for God's sake, there are people who are bad at mathematics, Hermione. _Bad at maths._ It's _Princeton University._"

"Oh, first world problems," Hermione said. "Goodness, when did you start worrying about things?"

"I'm not worried! I'm simply trying to ... I'm plotting."

Hermione let out half a laugh and glanced back at her roommate, who started to snore. "That," she said, turning back to the webcam, "reassures me not one jot of this seeming innocence you have going on."

"Oh, my seeming innocence is flawlessly maintained, darling." He crooked a smile up his cheek. "The Princeton population is convinced of my utmost respect for everyone and everything Princetonian."

"Do you really not respect _anyone_ there?"

"A few of the professors."

"Anyway, this is all beside the point. Are you going to tell me what your plan is or not?"

"I'd love to." He steepled his fingers and prepared to start his speech, but stopped. "Does this hand position make me look more evil?"

"Decidedly."

He moved his hands to the back of his neck and told her his plan.

oOo

"This was not part of the plan," Hermione said in a small voice.

Tom threw another glass at the wall. "God_dammit__!_"

"Please stop throwing things. It's not exactly going to help the situation."

"I know it won't bloody help the situation. Nothing will."

Hermione settled onto the sofa. "Come here."

He stared at the mess he'd made for a while, the rage fading from his features. "I can't believe this. Can't believe it."

"Come here," she repeated.

He settled into the cushions beside her. Hermione reached over and tilted his face to hers. "Tom?"

"Yes?"

"It doesn't matter that someone stole it. We've got our apartment. We've got degrees from two of the best universities in the country. We have your idea. We don't need money."

"But we _do_ need money. At the very least, I need a few terabytes to parallel the capacity of the human mind - and that would be for an AI of considerably low intelligence." He sank down into the sofa, gritting his teeth. "Jesus, imagine if the first words a robot ever spoke were '_Hey, bro,' _like one of those idiots from the T.I. Eating Club. Shoot me."

Hermione laughed. "Don't worry. If you have anything to say about it, it'll probably be something along the lines of, "Excellent; now my plans of world domination shall be actualized."

"Actually, now that you mention it -"

She gave him a class-one glare, and he fell silent with something close to a cheeky grin. "Simply trolling, my dear Hermione."

"Well, stop it. You know how uncomfortable referencing your own questionable morality is."

He responded with a sardonic snort. "The fact that I've made mistakes in my past? Yes; truly horrifying, I'm sure."

"You think you're being sarcastic, but your sordid past _would_ horrify some, I'd be happy to inform you."

"Well, then. Good thing it's our secret, isn't it?" He tackled her back into the sofa, and she let out an ungraceful squeak, her cheeks flushing. His predatory smirk pressed to her forehead, her nose, her lips. "I'm not worried, you know," he murmured.

"I know. Worrying is my job."

"I'll let you get back to it, then."

"We've got a free afternoon," Hermione said, pushing his hair back. "And we're finally moved back in together. You know, Harry and Ron didn't even think we'd make it past sophomore year."

"Shows what they know."

"Yes, Tom." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, my point is that we'll be absolutely alright. There's no reason to worry." She considered for a second. "Well, besides the fact that I have to put up with you for the foreseeable future. Now, there's a horrifying prospect if I ever heard one -"

"That's enough of _that_." He kissed her again, cutting off her cheerful deprecation. She threaded her arms around his waist, tugged him in, and smiled.

She knew they'd make it.

oOo

The television blared.

_"Sorry, my Prada's at the cleaner's! Along with my hoodie and my fuck-you flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag!"_

"Hoodie and flip-flops? Pretentious douchebag? Sounds familiar," Hermione said acidly.

"I did not wear _flip-flops._"

"You might as well have. Goodness knows why I let you out of the house like that." She propped her feet up on the table, stretching out with a yawn. "Regardless, I think it went well."

"Quiet, quiet, this is the most enjoyable part of the entire film."

_"I like standing next to you, Sean. It makes me look so tough._"

"Oh, that's such a fantastic line," Tom snickered. "I'm saving that for the future. _Makes me look so tough._"

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Did he talk to you about when he'd be calling -"

That was when the phone rang.

In an instant, the television was off, Hermione had grabbed up Tom's mobile, and he was standing next to her, listening to the voice on the other end.

"Hello?" she said.

"I assume this is Ms. Granger?"

"Yes, this is she. Is this Mr. Fairweather? Did you want to speak to Tom?"

"No, no, that's quite all right. In fact, I'd rather speak to you."

Tom took half a step back, looking affronted. Hermione glanced at him. "Er ... well, okay," she said. "Um."

"Since lunch, I've looked through the proposal. In fact, I sat down and read through the entire thing in about five hours."

"As if. It's five hundred pages of text," Tom whispered.

Hermione rolled her eyes and covered the mouthpiece. "He has a photographic memory, Tom."

He folded his arms and looked away.

"Well," Hermione said into the phone, "did ... did you think it was reasonable?"

"I've never seen a proposal like it, that's for sure. Bits of it seem to assume wild leaps of financial faith, and some sections just spew overconfidence."

Hermione forced herself not to look at Tom. "Right."

"But on the whole ... let me speak honestly here: It's pretty awesome. I showed your _h3y-br0 _prototype to a few of my colleagues. In fact, Troy's sitting in the other room right now, having a chat with _h3y-br0_ about the weather. Looks like you two have got the real deal on your hands. Not gonna ask how you did it, 'cause that's not my job. It is my job, though, to offer you a shit-ton of money, so let's talk over that for a second."

Hermione's pulse pounded. A grin stretched so widely across her mouth it hurt. She turned to Tom, whose look of satisfaction paralleled any she'd ever seen.

"We'd like to start you off with a conditional booster investment of fourteen million dollars."

The phone slipped out of her nerveless fingers. In one sharp grab, Tom snatched it out of the air and pressed it back to her face. "Be. Coherent," he whispered.

"Oh God," Hermione said. "That ... fourteen mih ... luh ... _what__?" Mission: Coherence, failed._

"Yep," Fairweather chuckled. "Go ahead, take a second, absorb it. Biggest investment we've made pretty much ever. But come on. You guys fuckin' invented artificial intelligence. Least we can do, am I right?" The smile faded from his voice. "But we do have to talk about the 'conditional' part of 'conditional booster investment'."

"Yes, of course, of course." Hermione cleared her throat and scrabbled for a pen and paper on the counter.

"The parts of the proposal you wrote, Ms. Granger. They're excellent. And they also read rationally and reasonably. But a couple chapters that Mr. Riddle handled ... not that they're not, you know, pretty much genius. They are. But some of my colleagues have expressed a little bit of doubt in the amount of ... ambition there."

Hermione spared another glance at Tom. His face stayed immobile, though she saw something in the set of his jaw that made her a little nervous.

"Our proposal," Fairweather said, "is that you lead the company. You would sign all the documents, do all the managing and all the planning. It'd be your name listed first on everything."

Her stomach dropped to her feet.

"See, people get freaked out over the idea of technology taking over everything, right? We felt like the amount of caution in your discussions - the analysis, the backup plans, all that - it'd go over well with the public. But Tom's plans ... he's really head-on with some of this stuff in Section 17.9, you know? I mean, frankly, that's some scary shit."

"That's theoretical," she said. "It's a precautionary measure for if the AI's start self-perpetuating. Which, given the limitations we've prescribed on their IQ, we've hoped ... well, we've tried to make it a non-issue. But Tom was just trying to -"

"Look, we're not trying to step on your boyfriend's toes here. We just think your writing is more solid. And hey, in an age of web tech, that's more trustworthy sometimes than great people skills. He seemed like a nice guy. We'd love to work with you both. But we need you, Hermione, covering the bases."

Hermione aimed a helpless look at Tom. Luckily, his glare was directed at the phone pressed to her face, not at her.

"Can you do that, honey?" Fairweather said.

"Please don't call me _honey_, Mr. Fairweather. Yes, I daresay this arrangement will work for all parties involved. I'll speak with Tom and I'll send you an email tomorrow. Is that all right?"

"Awesome. I look forward to it. Don't leave us waiting too long, okay?"

"Of course not. We'd love to get started as soon as possible."

"Night."

The line went dead, and Hermione placed her phone on the counter. "I ... so," she said.

Tom turned away.

Suddenly, the quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed far too loud. What could she say to break the silence? As if she should have to remedy some decision of their financial backer to put her above Tom in the chain of command. It wasn't even that important a point, was it? A technicality, really ...

Hermione cleared her throat. "This ... I don't think it's as big of a deal as you may th -"

"It was my bloody idea," he said, every word crisp and venomous. "And they want to take it away. Misattribute it. Just like that."

She fell silent. His words cut to the core. She'd put in just as much stress as he had, just as much hard work. And in that second, what truly bothered her was that she found herself comparing this life to what it might have been, had she found herself with someone normal. Someone inoffensive. Someone just as human as Tom, but nowhere near as powerful, or magnetic, or occasionally terrifying.

It wouldn't have been as interesting, but at times like this, in the interminable and oppressive quiet, Hermione thought she might have preferred normality.

And how could he tread on the work she'd done? All the effort she'd given to his idea? He'd simply had the concept; she'd helped exact it just as much as he had.

"All right," she said, a little more sharply than intended. "I think you know what my stance on this issue is, and I think you can probably predict my arguments, and I'm quite sure I can predict yours. As such, I'm not particularly inclined to have this quarrel, so I think I might just go to bed, Tom. You can stay here. You can brood and lurk and think on it all you'd like. Or you can come to bed."

"You're going to say I'm being oversensitive and petty, aren't you?" he said. "And power-hungry."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I am. And you're going to accuse me of secretly attempting to control things beyond my grasp, which is ridiculous on any number of levels, so I'll defuse that theory right now."

"Well, not as ridiculous as your inevitable accusation that I'm attempting to turn back the clock to a previous state of mind, henchmen and secret meetings and the lot. I've long left that behind, so don't think my affrontedness can be simply pinned to a desire for power."

"All right." Hermione pursed her lips. "Well, you're going to say that I'm not as aware of nuance and connotation as I should be. And you'll follow up by saying that the distinction between this start-up being a joint effort and an effort spearheaded by one or the other of us is paramount. And then you'll conclude by saying my subtlety, as always, is wanting. And I find that rude."

He nodded. "In any case, we both know that you're eventually going to respond that I'm attempting to exert too much control over you, and that you don't appreciate my intrusion."

"To which you'll reply that I rather enjoy it - though, I might add, I don't - and that intrusion is simply part of your unique charm."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "To which you will say, "That's bullshit.""

A long pause.

"Well, that's because it is bullshit, Tom!" she burst out. "After all this time, do you really still expect me to sit back and take a subordinate position? No! I won't have it. I've put in as much work on this as you have. I've been there right from the moment you elected to bring me into this partnership, and as this is a sheer business operation I have just as much right to the brand of this invention as you do."

"Oh, despite the fact that it was _my idea_ in the first place, right?"

"Like the idea of artificial intelligence hasn't been in the forefront of everyone's minds since the Gerard papers of 2014!"

"You are selfish. You are selfish and you act so sanctimonious and I'm sick of it."

"I AM NOT SELFISH!" she screamed.

Her words rang in the air, rang off the corners of the room. He just stared at her, dark eyes hard and unforgiving.

"Call me anything you want, but don't you dare call me selfish," she hissed. "I've given up everything I could have had to chase after your dreams with you. I'm here with you, and that in itself is evidence that I am anything but selfish. It's you who's selfish. You're the one who's trying to pin the blame on me because you have this victim complex. You know what? _Standing next to you makes me look so goddamned tough_, Tom. Because at least I can handle the idea that the world isn't responsible for all my problems. At least I can accept responsibility for my actions."

He raised a hand. Forced it back to his side. Stumbled back, cursing under his breath.

He stopped across the room from her, clutching to the wall like he wanted to tear it from the floor. "Why do you do that? Why do you fucking snap at me? I almost hit you, you idiot! You know I've got - why do you say shit like that, when you're well aware -"

"That you have violent tendencies? Yes, I know! But I'm not afraid to speak honestly with you, because I trust you, Tom. I trust you _not to._" She slammed a hand onto the counter, closing her eyes. _Breathe, Hermione. Breathe._

She took a shaky breath. "You know the second you break that trust, I'm gone. I love you, and I want to be with you. As long as you're the Tom who has enough respect and self-restraint to override his stupid, animalistic impulses."

"I ..." Tom shook his head, resting his forehead against the wall.

They stood as ice statues for long minutes. The silence rang in their ears.

Tom drew a slow breath. "Don't leave me," he said. "Please."

She took a few tentative steps toward him. "I'm not leaving you, Tom. You think I'm giving up over this? No. _No_."

He closed his eyes. The touch of her fingers on his cheek cooled his inflamed temper.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have ..."

"Been honest? Yes, you should. I'm not thanking you for it, but it's done."

Hermione curled her fingers around his biceps and laid her head on his chest. "Look," she whispered. "Look at me. I trust you. So trust me, will you? I'm not going to leave over something so stupid."

He hugged her to him, nestling his chin amidst her bushy hair. "I ... so ... I'll handle the publicity, then, will I?"

The knot dissolved in Hermione's chest, and half a smile tugged at her lips. "Doubtless you'll be the face of the operation, Tom."

"Am I allowed to be both the face and the hidden mastermind?"

"Not exactly hidden, then, are you?"

"Well." He let her take a step away, and he smoothed her hair away from her reddened face. "It depends on how much power I ostensibly show."

"I think it would be better if you agree to be the head of interpersonal relations, I agree to be the head of 'Making Sure Things Stay Normal,' and we both work on the rest together. All right?" She hoisted herself up on the counter, tilted his head to hers, and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Tom, look at this holistically. We just got offered fourteen million dollars."

"I used to make that much in my sleep," he said, with the usual bite of cynicism.

"I know." She drew away slightly. "How does it feel to earn it instead?"

He pulled her back in. "Delicious."

oOo

"We're overjoyed to announce our new line, which has a full 360 degrees capability in sight and motion-sensing. No more awkwardly bumping into a robo on the sidewalk." Tom grinned, relishing in the camera flashes. "They'll also be more stable, more coordinated, and less likely to eat your house keys. I honestly don't know how their taste for metal developed in the last line, but that's a glitch you can patch with our new software."

Laughs from the crowd.

"A couple last questions," Tom said, tapping the podium impatiently. He had to be gone in a few minutes, or he'd risk missing everything he'd planned. But he had to satisfy the swath of reporters before him... and some of them looked familiar. They must have been at the last press conference.

That bloke in the hat. Had he been the one who'd asked about robots' rights last time? God forbid he suffer through that obnoxious slew of constitutionality issues again.

"You, in the red," he said.

"Mr. Riddle, is it true that you and Ms. Granger have received a 40% pay hike with the release of the new line?"

He chuckled, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "No, we haven't got bonuses or pay rises. I told Hermione we should get a raise for all the extra time we've been putting in, but she insisted on giving more money to _charity_ or something. Honestly, that woman."

Laughs from the audience. Tom almost snickered to himself. Of course they thought he was kidding. "Yes, you, in the yellow."

"Why does Ms. Granger never do these press conferences?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Because she doesn't like crowds." _You dolt. What a waste of air time._ "Next? In the sunglasses, yes."

"Any possibility that this line will self-perpetuate?"

Tom stood up a little straighter. "Interesting question. No. You can ask any of the robos themselves - they're all quite down-to-earth, and they're aware that their IQs have been limited to certain specifications. They won't be able to create robots smarter than themselves any more than your average human being with IQ 100."

He sensed the stirring of human rights issues and made an executive decision. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for today. Please do email or telephone our public relations department if you have any terribly pressing inquiries. We'd love to hear them."

With that, he stepped away from the podium and through the curtain, unexpectedly nervous. He'd spent the better part of two years planning for this day, but still. It was an important day indeed.

After a hurried set of steps, he slipped out of the building into a limousine. Hermione sat in the back seat, a driver-robo in the front. They pulled away through the streets.

"Lovely job as usual," Hermione said. "When you said the charity thing, I almost laughed."

"As did I. People take astoundingly little notice of the truth when you say it directly to their faces."

Hermione yawned. "I'm so tired. I'm sorry, Tom - I'm sure this has been an awful birthday for you."

He shrugged. "Well, it is release date. We knew it'd happen when we scheduled it for today."

"I'm still sorry. It's your twenty-eighth."

"You say that like it's important."

"Well, it is important. You're now closer to thirty than you are to twenty-five."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Our next project should be immortality."

"It can be a private one, if you'd like." She leaned her head on his shoulder, yawning again. "Regardless. It's your birthday, so we should do something to celebrate. What would you like to do?"

"I don't know. Get married?"

She sat up, and her mouth snapped shut from its yawn. The sleepiness drained from her eyes in the space of a split second. "Er. What?"

"I'm sure we could find a place," he said. "It's not too late yet. We could have dinner, go find a nice dress and a tuxedo, get married."

Her eye twitched.

Tom almost laughed. "You're not sure whether or not I'm joking."

"You had better be joking, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"What would you do if this were actually my proposal technique?"

"Strangle you in your sleep, possibly."

"Wouldn't it be more satisfying if I were awake?"

"I don't put that much thought into my death threats, Tom!"

"Well, better this than a huge ordeal, right?" He smirked.

"Yes." She closed her eyes, leaning her head on his shoulder. "God, I think I would die of embarrassment if -"

"Pull over here," he said.

They halted. He covered her eyes before she could look out the window.

"Why are we pulling over?" Hermione said sharply. "What's - we're not home yet, are we?"

"No," he whispered, and kissed the shell of her ear. He could practically feel her cheeks flooding with warmth. "We're not home. But I have something to show you. I think you might want to see it."

"I ... are you ... is this ..."

He nodded to the robo in the driver's seat. The door clicked open, and Tom walked Hermione outside into the center of Times Square.

A magnificent metal structure stretched into the triangle of steel gray sky above, taller than any building surrounding it. Atop the tower stood a platform, whose contents were invisible to the street at large.

"I hear voices," Hermione said, through gritted teeth. "Lots of voices. Where are we?"

"I told you. I have one last personal project to show you. May I?"

"_Where - are - we - Tom - Riddle."_

He took his hands from her eyes, pride racing through his veins. Oh, she'd hate him for this, and she'd love him for it. And the glory of this final unveiling - the grandeur of it - well, Incendio Incorporated would forever be cemented in the annals of time. That was a nice side bonus.

The crowd swarmed around them, though many stood in place, staring up at the platform for the grand unveiling. "What's up there?" she whispered. "Tom?"

Tom withdrew a shiny object from his pocket and pressed a button on it.

First, a huge sheet of silvery silk fluttered from the platform. It snagged on the side of the metal structure, swaying in the wind.

Then a car toppled off the edge of the platform.

Screams erupted around them as two tons of metal plummeted toward the earth. Some people tried to run. Others simply froze with the breath caught in their chests.

Tom Riddle let himself enjoy the chaos for a second. Then he raised his hand and pressed the button again.

The car righted itself, and with a whirr, stabilized itself in midair. Times Square went silent. Fleeing people froze in place, twisted to stare. Cameras flashed.

A ladder rolled down from the side of the car. Tom Riddle started up the silver rungs and held out a hand to Hermione. He was a suited silhouette stamped against the gloaming. "Marry me?"

Time seemed to have slowed, or even reversed. Hermione's indignation - her heated embarrassment - dwindled to nothing.

The people around her regarded her with astonishment, and Hermione found herself relishing it. Yes; sometimes normality seemed like it would be enough. But sometimes, the insufferable know-it-all in her wanted to cry out, _I am Hermione Granger! _Hermione Granger, the woman who publically received her due recognition perhaps once a year. Hermione Granger, the woman behind modern technology as the world knew it.

But at this moment, she hardly even cared for the validation. It was him. It was him, striking her with awe anew for the thousandth time.

"God, it's like magic," she murmured.

And though she didn't know it, she struck him with awe anew simply by saying those words. She made him ache with her childlike wonder and appreciation. The look in her eye, a reminder of love; the extension of her hand to his, a demonstration of compassion.

She joined him on the ladder, hand strong and small and devoted. "Yes," she said.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

They climbed into the sky.

_x_

_x_

_x_

_fin_

* * *

**Welp! That's that. I hope you weren't expecting children scenes. I don't know, I don't really picture Tom as the fatherly type, and I wasn't about to go all old-person-depressing-death-scene on you guys.**

**Hope you liked it. I guess this story is wrapped up for good. I'll get back to working on Ad Infinitum, then... *facepalm* i am so bad at doing anything on a set schedule**

**I LOVE YOU**

**speechwriter**

**(if you want to visit me on tumblr - batmansymbol (dot) tumblr (dot) com. i love meeting people there!)**


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